Constant cravings...

Where do I belong?
It’s a write wrong fun song.
That life that I missed before
And the other one I look toward
The mess of all others that I make
The turning inside that mistake
The life I worked from inside out
Tips the coupe and takes her now.
I’m the famous master, the furnished summer
I’m the upside down to up around.
I’m the lost, the found, the turnaround
Way up and way down
The sound is lost to from and so o o o on.
Emotional crisis. Again.

Jobless mess is constant sadness
Lift my spirits, lord, and make my wind;
The summer is the rest of winter
The openness that was and was not.
Twist to the best and turnaround.
I’m the fastest growing garden in the West.
Is the word finding backward the forwards mark?
Is the turning covers, the sheets of winter
a reminder that mist comes fro in spring?
Haven’t the wayside manner come about
Or am I still missing the point?
That way I can find a quirky middle class,
A sovereignty that permits my mistake/
The hasn’t has and the ‘or isn’t;
The faster can and the fastest can’t.
A swirling mind tanz can tangently lurk
For missing praise, small works, small wolves
and miniature worlds.