So what

So what If print
               this way is for present bringing purpose.  
                     So what If I’m still writing as though in some imaginary
conversation, pretending there’s a challenge, pretending
you are saying stop
       And I’m refusing.  
So what If it’s only in my head that I defend my freedom to and that I’m once again procrastinating writing
                                                               what I
should, 
saving for later, thoughts on captivity tales.  
I’m breaking free of my own type of bondage and this is
                                                                                                    how I do it.
And so what if all I’ve got of actual workable scarlet
                            letter commentary is not too
                                               much yet; I’ve got enough real
                                                                                                             life
tormenting, teasing
                    in my life and mind at current
                                                              to aid when I get down to work.
                                                                           I can’t escape
                                                                                                       it- 
it’s
 all
around – in the every
              day.  Though, Red’s not my favorite, I have wet
                           the thread
                                                 and my skin affirms the knowledge of
                                                                                              hunger for a
certain
color.   
Call
the
thought police, the word police, the god police.  He knows
and I’m not scared.  Chances are, chances took.  
Who do you
                   think you are?  
With no fighting chance, fat chance now.
 it was a long shot in the first place.  
So what, I ramble, rant.  
My words, they mean
                                                                                                 something, 
at
least  to
me.  
The grind no longer works and  I’m no longer working out
        the grind.  it's said, Don’t sweat the
                                             small
                                            stuff, so
                                                this
                                                     is how I sweat it out.  
Not
 everything has to be a
masterpiece. Sometimes you just spit
                 it out, work it out and wipe your hands, your feet...
                        of dust and sudor.  
Not everything needs to be
                                     super hard.  I’ll align it how I do, how I can,
                                                       adjusting how I do every now and
                                                                      then. 
 So what if no one
                                                                                  says I see or means 
a
flipping thing when they
talk to
me. 
So what if I saw contrast in what you said and what you
                                                                                              did. 
 I’ve owned
my share of alteration.  There’s irony, comparison to go
           around so everyone can own their share.  
how much
                         difference can there be
                                                                      between slavery and
captivity.  
you Dot your Is and cross your ts and I’ll tittle my
         ts and divide
my is and bear my cross cause The coast is clear now, it’s a
         sunshiny day and I’m seeing better than ever before.
                                                                                                   Verbs may
                                                                                                   vibrate but
not
    those nouns, so
I’m steadying up and standing
                                                         ground.  There was resonation
for a while but resignation
                                               now because I’m not married to a color
                                                        but to sound.  red’s as good as
   cobalt and sea flows like blood and I see pearls emerging
      out of
both.  WE’re all
                              let off the hook, not graded on a curve.  In a
                                                                    new york minute, the blink,
                                                                         wink of a twinkle in the
                                                                                                              eye, we’ll
                                                                                                               each tip
                                                                                                                         the wink and quickly point it firm.
                                                             




T.S. Poetry
Sunday Whirl