Potluck

masquerading maurader mothers sons and daughters moving through a world at fast pace with no order.  Like lambs to the slaughter----lost on a- course leading to a dead end rushing the wheels to spin.  Who we really are is never really known because the seed of the soul is never sown.  growing roots takes time, to progress takes mind---strength is an illusion when it prevents the intrusion of all the things that makes this life great.  Chasing a moving target to accumulate the largest portion of the pie.  My eyes tell a story my words conciously conceal.  What's keeping it real, when the reality is fake.  What's really to lose if nothing is at stake.  Is it wrong to taste the cake and have a cupcake too? Or is it wrong if your the taster? or if the cupcakes you?  Various shades of blues and jazz tunes were created from the losing vantage point.  But Mary says she's fine, and I'm like yeah that's my joint.  the point is underlying underpinned to the underside of ryhming.  Not hiding but hidden since surface is the only level universally understood.  It all good.  I'll wallow in the depths of understanding while the others are just standing.  forward planning while others are just handling.  Commanding while others are demanding.  I'm branding while others are just handing over the most precious of the parts.  I leave a mark.  Temporary reminders so even in the blindness you can feel.  The memory is timeless even after bruises heal.