The Bowl by James MacEachern

I have come to terms,
with wiggly worms and silly dude perms.
But language cuts my soul.
I have only one, it's my bowl.
For thought, idea and impression,
stave off regression.
Grow.

It's a two-way street.
My gray matter meat,
tries to share what it's been cooking.
But you have a different way of looking.
My blue, your green.
Your funny, my obscene.
Tears.

Worse still,
is when your will,
tries to manipulate with the bowl
but I listen, I glimpse your soul.
Perhaps you believe,
the tricks up your sleeve.
Now you're in the bowl,
your fiction is now your whole.
Prisoner.

I see it everywhere,
reality paper tear,
worlds apart,
but close enough to hear your heart,
as it beats hard and true.
I almost reached you.

Mr. Jims

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