I wrote about love, a wandering down the aisles and finding the wrong brand of ice cream on the shelves. When the dictionary said my poems have to rhyme, I decided to use it as a door stop instead of wasting my time. The magician pulls the rabbit out of the hat, only to find it's his reflection. The joke's on those who believed they would see a new perspective.

Intakes of breath, free writing until my mind pops - stardust that falls lightly on her red sweater like snow fall. Quotes from the internet that inspire tattoos, a young girl’s fantasy in her childhood home. Perhaps we’re all trying to be known, a lifetime of experiences leading us to the watering hole.

Baileys that pours through my brain, rocks that diminish to sand grains. Irish bars that reflect inner chaos. I find that writing about space and time interests no one. I am a hashtag that was spelled wrong, and my domain is: "504 - an error was made a long time ago".

Who is to say what is good, what impresses the judges? The good stuff always dribbles to the bottom. My writing might not speak your truth, but it exists somewhere in this universe.

You can find it under: "404 - your existence was not found."

Maybe we are all just waxing philosophical, stars that become supernovas: orange, and nothing rhymes with orange.