Every time, I handpick my careful choice of words,
I give away stories I could write instead
Into provocative flights of the birds.
I steal the existence of a Nothingness
I could have had, had I not been busy
Preoccupying someone else’s thoughts.
I erase and improvise in my head
Before I’m out in the field, risking
myself to the idea of openly bleeding red.
I play my life- pause, unpause,
Fiddling naturally with details, changing
Them- could be, will be, sometimes even was.
I salute to my reflection in the dirty waters,
Pride upon being the best among nature’s daughters.
And even so, at times, awareness prevails:
Am I just correcting the best parts
To keep destiny away?
Or is this my clandestine form
Of committing adultery, each and every day?


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