Just me and my muse, at play in a field
of wishful thinking, so I sow my own seeds
and reap the sweetness of my family.
You don't know me, a well-worn pen,
assuming me wrong, in blind eyesight.
But that's the way I am wary, not a fool.
Sarcastically, my feet touch the ground
skipping my own rope. Listening to nature
with my mind awake. Knowing the echoes
are only memories of my soul's awakening
with nature. Not braying the horn of a dethroned
jackass. I snap my own black eyes peas.