I woke with a head full of words. Cryptic like a screwed up letter rewritten and tossed aside. Am I supposed to make sense of it? I’d like to try.
I have lines written years ago. Just lines that will someday be something, something other than just lines.

Scraps of paper a reminder of inspirations lost in a thought. Fresh words with new meaning are now, my love. 

What I write falls with meaning, always loaded always with reason. I won’t  wade through metaphors when forthright has such beauty to explore.