Do you ever stop to think
why a fleeting thought occurred
and then the same person called?
Do you ever wonder why
you took a different route
and saw something
to change long-held perspectives?
Do you ever think why
power battles in the office
are repeated at home
-pushing you from being
A perpetrator to receiver?
Do you still believe
there are no patterns
In madness around you,
or doubt your own literacy
In reading
the ordained alphabet?
It’s fun to read others words.
It’s fun to hear the emotion behind the word.
I wonder who took their voice.
I wonder a lot.
Like a kid at a scribal room short to ride the rides .
That young person that young pattern isn’t mad at the rides.
I am stuffing pink sugar disguised as a treat I with reverence for the day my feet will dangle as I swirl in the purity of the moment turning too quickly for the patience and growth I do, will do will never not do, to raise my arms in a spirited. Release of of satisfaction smiling and embrace that reaches reaching for the heavens. I am stuffing my eyes with real grace shaped like clouds. And I will go home when it gets dark . And the next time I will do and see my own make my own adventure. We will trade comics and shoot squirt gums into clowns, side by side. But don’t come home with me. Don’t tell me which corners to turn. You will get lost leaving carnival, nauseas from corn dogs if you don’t trust a kid and her bicycle to find her own way home. I trust the other bicycles, the roads, the stop signs, the waiting mothers to be on their own porch. I need no teacher to avoid the coyotes moving towards home. I don’t need to be a coyote to learn about the wood filled with coyotes. that is a trap. I don’t trust traps. At least not after losing a finger, or 4. But shit, ya know you can rides bike with one hand. A coyote made something for that once.
Reena Saxena 
It’s fun to read others words.
It’s fun to hear the emotion behind the word.
I wonder who took their voice.
I wonder a lot.
Like a kid at a scribal room short to ride the rides .
That young person that young pattern isn’t mad at the rides.
I am stuffing pink sugar disguised as a treat I with reverence for the day my feet will dangle as I swirl in the purity of the moment turning too quickly for the patience and growth I do, will do will never not do, to raise my arms in a spirited. Release of of satisfaction smiling and embrace that reaches reaching for the heavens. I am stuffing my eyes with real grace shaped like clouds. And I will go home when it gets dark . And the next time I will do and see my own make my own adventure. We will trade comics and shoot squirt gums into clowns, side by side. But don’t come home with me. Don’t tell me which corners to turn. You will get lost leaving carnival, nauseas from corn dogs if you don’t trust a kid and her bicycle to find her own way home. I trust the other bicycles, the roads, the stop signs, the waiting mothers to be on their own porch. I need no teacher to avoid the coyotes moving towards home. I don’t need to be a coyote to learn about the wood filled with coyotes. that is a trap. I don’t trust traps. At least not after losing a finger, or 4. But shit, ya know you can rides bike with one hand. A coyote made something for that once.
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Beautiful!
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Very good.
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Thank you so much!
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Welcome.
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