I began to edit
the profile pictures pouring into boring,
none of them grasped my whole essence.
Before that my closets.
the small hill of colorful fabrics lays waiting to be taken to the next phase
to be sifter through new hands on a rack
relived on the bosom of another, looking for comfort,
for one day of the year.
I pulled out the bags of biz cards,
thought I'd add them to a CRM
make order of potential clients.
Sold to me as "free" now limits me to 1,000 contacts only
the catch came, fooled me again.
I had a weekend immersion course for my Broker training,
I couldn't stay focused on the boring ways of reality.
I thought I could learn something hard
but is this those things you meant to edit from my life?
Im seeing the truth stinging me like a roar as a lullaby goes into a snore.
Will I ever be an artist again? A respectable rebel?
One who finds the passing expressions & in her net catches them?
A land of language beyond the horizon?
Can I be more poetic?
Finding ways to play in paper and pens?
If only I let it...
and edit.