RHYMES
I do Morning Pages, which is a daily practice of writing three long-hand pages, stream-of-consciousness stuff. Sometimes when I feel blocked, I write rhyming phrases just to get something on the page.
Here are a few recent ideas that came out of this process:
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Life is weird.
I ain't skeered.
No time for fear, everything is clear.
Gotta move on from here.
The status quo has got to go.
Paralysis by phalluses.
—-
Old calendar items that I can't seem to erase.
Popping up in my face.
Legacies of disgrace.
Time to wipe them out, to erase.
—-
Is this just a phase that I will outgrow?
Is there any way to know?
Is something truly wrong or is this just the rough part of the song?
—-
When I can't write a coherent sentence I just rhyme.
At least it lets me keep time.
—-
The things I can lean on are getting fewer and lesser.
Starting to bother and fester.
There is a good man inside, capable.
Increasingly he's unwakeable.
Wandering from thing to thing, nothing makes me sing.
—-
In the Rat Race I got a flat tire, then my engine caught fire.
Only piece left on the board is a pawn.
Only simple moves left.
I once was so deft.
—-
Painting myself into corners when there are no borders is self-limiting to the thing that could make my heart sing.
—-
Feel the sting of the universe's ambivalence.
It's so tempting to acquiesce.
Give in to indifference.
Rising up is an act of defiance, in spite of the science.
Law of Gravity says "stay down" so I leash up the dog and walk around town.
Free associate.
Syncopate.
But never, ever accept your fate.
—-
So much in this world is fictitious and delicious but too often not nutritious.
—-
El Niño is starting to steam, oh.
Braising us low and slow.
Next thing you know, there'll be no more snow.
We're living to see it.
Nevermore will we ski it.
The fire's in the sky now.
Elon wants to fly now.
But there ain't no time for the cow to jump over the moon.
—-
Have I not recovered from the loss?
What is sticking around, in the way?
Things look wide open, why do I stay?
—-