I’m largely and less disconnected from most things here.
Thoughts ramble & callous like they own the space.

Mostly I believe in all my mistakes.  I am the opposite
of what I might become.  All because it was thought.

One writers vanity is to think I am what I write.
Or worse, if writing nothing at all, then so am I.

I don’t believe in can’t say words, only unwillingness.
Maybe I’m right about that.

Brush your teeth.  Tell the truth.  Keep open
wounds clean.  Wash your hands.

Still, I favor using random blemished words.
A fortune of omens found.  Maybe go fish.

All the best ideas turned to be only best ideas.
Nothing more.

Old feelings get written in ink.  No matter how,
we mistake years of wear as wisdom’s bark.

Whispers say, first – break the rules you own,
no keys, no locks, no thirsty cheshire grace.

See trees as faces, faces trees.  Look for clues.
Simple is the shorter thread.  No hiding,

Except by the imagined rules of circumference.

No speak, being the genuine lie.
 
 
 
neil reid © 2016 february
 
 
for This is Not A Literary Journal, prompt, The rules