Peteroo's Blog

Badling of ducks imprints on the first girl they see. Will a bad king with bucks come play with me?

Room teems with company ops that suffice. Do shy ones know, with this gal, they should roll the dice?

Neither gloriole nor red light is aura seen; who I am and what I want lies between.

Either cards or songs would be marvy fun. Charming bloke, take my hand before arrives the sun. ; )

Bardolater astroll, through these trees, light breaks, brightening the window of your soul.

Those amphiscians receive their sun through palms of date, content in warmth, okay with late.

Which branch is the pyramidion of each reach to sky? Does leaf that touches heaven receive a priceless high?

Jactance holds no ground amongst star catchers for height matters not; rays touch all who need, whether a little or a lot. ; )

As talented as an EGOT? No. My ego needs no politicised publicity stunt to find myself assured that I am worthy of both affirmations and validations.

Yes, I have a prebuttal for those who believe I am just jealous: accolades will eventually just collect dust on a shelf or wall, but everyday that I place my best foot forward, I am a reward to myself, whether small or tall.

The setting of my life is not built for me; I stay as long as my life is lit and my heart remains aglow. It is not about being finicky, but when flickering begins and alleys dim, it is time to go.

Some days, I feel super. Some days, music gets my mood. Some days, I am not myself. Some days, I feel like hiding in a box. I write my story most days, but sometimes my story writes me. When the ogive of the writer wears blunt, I reflect at where I stand. Then, I sharpen my mind, kindle my heart, and prepare for the next hand. ; )

Fire monkey fallen to ground, whom should we inculpate for the state in which you are currently found?

Did tumble, as well, organ grinder’s box? Broken handle in mandrel resets to new key to music’s tocks.

Broken heart prescinds from sight of lifeless arms. Can it be resuscitated–all of street monkey’s charms?

Jacques Bonhomme will save the day? With both headphones and self-crocheted scarf, he’s welcome to lift up for play. ; )

Is reality me or am I dimidiate–the whole being both here and in the reflection of a less-suffering self?

When antics of the wiseacres and pathetic persons leave the self with no defenses, roborant aid comes from what lies underneath–the intangible parts that complete our identity. : )