Bullshit in LA

The forgotten sensation of serenity frees my self from the box I have put it in. It has been never since I have felt as one with Nature. She has revealed herself to me in the silence of a 2 am smoke cloud. I feel her rattle my bones with a newly composed modern language. My soul has learned to speak. Like a freshly tuned piano, it waits to converse aloud. I am stolen by the intensity of sound in such a secluded place.

My cigar is playfully shrinking with each inhale and I watch as the smoke rises in waves and sometimes circles. My name is swirling above the World, today. She greets me through word play, inspiration lapping at my tongue. I speak from outside the box. I am not like any one else because I am aware. For the rest of this life, I want to be a reoccurring dream, a beautiful fragrance lifted from the body of a loved one.

I am a sponge, absorbing the wet grass below my thought-stains. I pick freedom from my hair and it tangles, it tangles. The shortness of breathe is forgivable because I have allowed myself to not be. Anything at all. I lie.