quiet the mind
just enough to hear the important thoughts/
the creative thoughts/
the thoughts that are often drowned out
by anxiety rambling
and existential depression blues
there may be creative moments
inside those diatribes
but i’ve heard enough of them to know —
it’s getting past them
that the true me
lies
[in truth]
click your heels together
and say
“there’s no place
like home
there’s no place
like home”
but if home isn’t a place
it’s a feeling
it’s a space for you to
know your own true you
aren’t the heels simply clicking
on the road
to your friends
your clique
your crew
your coconspirators
and comrades
and found family?
is that the truth?
it is kind of wild to me
that art in and of itself
is simply an invitation to
s t r e t c h
any truth we may want to share or inhabit
[any pureness for accuracy
may or may not be
entertaining/
good art anyway
so why not craft reality
to your individual
liking?]
kipventures 