My morning

The way in which I wake is to be slow
I make coffee to help me concentrate
The radio it plays, the people say
So many things to think of and to know

I sip so slow, my mug reflects my woes
In to a wisdom lasting past the aches
Of places that I go and ways I make
The written words to flow and poems grow

The trip is gripping still if me I take
A look to find a path of love bestowed
And flipping out is yesterdays bad taste
And smiling makes it better than to moan

I’d love to sing; my voice will not allow
And so I write instead to words I bow

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