I don’t have my own of anything.  My writing consists of stolen pieces of jewels taken from respectable people.  A melody of broken phrases tossed into the ocean of my mind.  They Swirl around and shine just when it’s about to go black.  If I could drink the tea of life and not feel like vomiting up that cliche I think I might find peace.

As I highlight yet another meaningful verse I mingle with questioning thoughts regarding how connected I feel to those particular words positioned in just the right way to speak to my inner being.  I almost feel violated as if someone else stole into my mind and borrowed its thoughts.  Not fancy organized thoughts, but rather connected the dots I failed to.  I imagine it feels like someone taking a hot fire stoker from my hand and searing my face with it.  Or maybe I only had that thought because it is what I would like to do to the writer in that moment.  Kiss them, then sear them!

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