identity

Word soup

I don’t like gazpacho. I like chicken corn chowder. I love beef stew. I don’t care for chicken noodle. It’s always a part of any cold regimen. Blah. Pumpkin soup can warm ones toes. But this is too literally.

Too many words at once. Jumbled and they are crumbled. Once said they fall into dust. Can’t be salvaged. Don’t get in the way. Vacuum up those superfluous words. Toss them into the fire. The smoke will point you to the one word.

Can I get it right now. I can see clearly now. Last night I took a tour of your dreams. Hope you remember. I don’t need your words to have fun tonight. As long as I keep dancing.

Words. Too many. I don’t care. They are as good as gone. Oh no there you go. Oh no no. Starting another word dumpster fire. Don’t speak. Let’s tap into memories. Keep the lips sealed. Stop explaining. It only digs the puncture deeper.

I’ll speak. I want you to know I’m beautiful. I’m thinking deeper. I’d rather dance with you. Let’s keep the jumbled thoughts abay. There’s space once the words are vacuumed up. We can find our souls. Our bodies can do the talking instead.

No wordles. No words with friends. The words can be rooted in their time and space. But lets untangle and sway.

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