The Hippie Hideaway

I’m sitting in my room in the hippie hideaway and watching the golden globe drop below the pine tree branches that blanch through my mind erasing the fissures of time and space and I wish Hunter left someone his mace. To make a world full of grace and good taste and more dresses made from lace. I have books I’ve written in my head, unpublished lines that have already decayed. I wish I could hold a note and a stare when I’m in raged. Disjointed, and dodgy are critic’s take, well “suck it sideways.” You fucking fakes. You’re a philosopher with out an ethos, so What’s Your Story Morning Glory? My feet are cold, since my heart recently stopped pumping blood from its chambers. My emotions shape interpretations of the Nation, I’m a Hallmark Haitian. Tsunami love victim. Suicide? Of the “cultural” kind.

I’m a Word Wielding Love Warrior of epic ideal. Green is in this year. Two used to be here. That is utterly beside the point. I’m really here to discuss the Hippie Hideaway not wax poetic.

I would mainly say that my street has a distinctively New England beat. With antique houses all wavy glass, built when America History wasn’t even a class. We have a few restaurants that all serve beer, don’t worry if you’re under 21 still in the clear. My problem is that old isn’t anything new can understands. So we look with misinterpretations and feel agitations.

I have extension cords running like veins on the smooth wooded skin of my room. Life is glowing. The keyboard constantly ticking away the time I have and the money I don’t, probably won’t. To be honest, if I could, I would construct a moat and fill is with some ocean, to avoid the inevitable commotions. Between two palm trees is where you would persistently find me, with an IV of Chia iced tea.

I’m not a hippie, words can’t encapsulate.

Labels on artist as I slip on Starbucks.

At the bookstores I generally want more than what I see,

but oh silly me,

no one is ever really free.