Musings by The Poet Loriet
Strange Bedfellows
Every night,
I go to bed with a notebook,
curl my body around it
in a soft "C" as if to
protect it, my thoughts
from the world.
It's my safe place
where I can be alone
with my mind and
talk to myself.
I pour passion and anguish
onto the pages and although
I prefer expressing those in
a dance of love, my notebook
comes in a close second.
Self-pleasure, release of
a mental, spiritual,
philosophical nature.
A release I crave and
until my mind is empty,
sleep is impossible.
So I write until I
reach a state of numb,
then I give in to my dreams
and wake up with my notebook
having captured me in mid-thought
with chicken scratch nonsense
scrawled across the page.
I close the book on my
unfinished business and
start each day with
a gloriously blank
new page.
Lori Beal
I go to bed with a notebook,
curl my body around it
in a soft "C" as if to
protect it, my thoughts
from the world.
It's my safe place
where I can be alone
with my mind and
talk to myself.
I pour passion and anguish
onto the pages and although
I prefer expressing those in
a dance of love, my notebook
comes in a close second.
Self-pleasure, release of
a mental, spiritual,
philosophical nature.
A release I crave and
until my mind is empty,
sleep is impossible.
So I write until I
reach a state of numb,
then I give in to my dreams
and wake up with my notebook
having captured me in mid-thought
with chicken scratch nonsense
scrawled across the page.
I close the book on my
unfinished business and
start each day with
a gloriously blank
new page.
Lori Beal
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Strange Bedfellows
Strange Bedfellows
