I haven’t a clue. I’ve motivation; something eager to try. I sense one has life, a leaflet, neat penmanship, peaking at sadness. Literature is riddled with absence. Those dreams, right? I never know what to say—a little awkward that way. I still contend happiness is a brief reprieve, to notice sadness has dissipated, both seeming related to chemicals—or an Al Green feeling. So much is left unsaid—many outspoken souls, visiting serenity, or fraught in spirit—trying to correlate life with creativity. To know parts of your life, makes for strength; trying for whatever its worth, leaving well enough alone, in using a trite cliché. It wasn’t what I supposed it would be, rereading it was moving. Each soul is speaking to an audience. Each spirit is trying to relate to part invisibility. I haven’t a clue. I know it isn’t easy. I know I endorse a little naivety. You would appreciate dialogue. It was intended in a moment. It was part off—I haven’t a clue. You make it look easy. You paint with mastery in focus. I wouldn’t mind visiting a certain feeling. I wouldn’t mind becoming a protegee. It seems the audience sees something I missed. By moral of its ink, by jazz with blues, by another resurrection.
