writer dreamer lover poet

as a
writer a
dreamer a
lover a
poet
i oft wonder if it were my
life’s purpose to
live in discourse in the
most correct way

foreign from the
typical routine others
enslave themselves to
committed to living from
paycheck to pay back and
monetary necessities

for i treat dollars with the same
despise some mother-in-laws
shade towards those not
worth the fruit of her labor

even at the bottom
mind aching with
regrets i still find love
feeling the warm
sun upon my face the
cool wetness of rain the
awe inspiring joy that singing birds bring
not a sad song but one filled with
green melodic cadences

what is the color of freedom
certainly not the
darkness behind
closed tired eyes and calloused hands
missing mesmerizing moments and miracles
occurring naturally around this

orbiting sphere who’s
center must certainly be
caring and generous enough to
sustain constant consistent
lack of appreciation and gratitude
side effects of hate greed corruption and fear

perchance the color of freedom is love
bravely loving enough to
unplug from the reddening madness of
routine and predictability and comfortable conformity and
live passionately as a
writer a
dreamer a
lover a
poet