Stepping Stones


I find my foundation to be a spiral staircase.
Each step is supported by the framework of the wall inside the carpentry that built up my confidence in how well I can write.
I can imagine each step as it is virtually ascending.
I recall a dream in which I had an apartment complex,
aloft of sorts above a mature woman; she considers me a contemporary of hers, a peer.
She doesn’t seem to mind my footsteps as I climb up to my living room.
Her cats, on the other hand, are quite infatuated with my presence.
And so I leave some catnip at the bottom of the stairwell.
Then I can move on up without her needing to worry about what I’m doing.
Just trying to create a dream that I can live, don’t mind me.
My favorite feature is the slide I can take to get to the ground floor,
and the pole I can slide down in case of emergencies,
no more breaking the glass in case of fire.
Ages ago, I welded the mythos and the Chronos together,
I stamped my logos on this concept,
fusing the hook to the hammer to the sword,
and they are one now with a profuse engagement of smithing words into a skill that only a wordsmith could pull off.
This legend was born out of the foundry; as something that is unique, at least I think.
I’ve got a staff to back me up on that one.
No more using the two objects for the wrong process.
I use the blunt end for building and terraforming land mass that is no longer applicable to any of these systems of entrapment.
No more busting chops,
no more stinging pricks,
no more using staples to send facsimiles,
no more teaching with holy hand grenades.
No more catching a hail mary just to get a safety.
Who’s team am I on anyway?
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,
I’m not playing games when I write and don’t make me write off the cuff again,
you’ll let yourself go on the slim chance in hell that we are not there anymore.
Did I confuse you again?
Awesome,
then this must be working,
I’m not writing to bail myself out,
I’m writing as a hobby,
and I would never want my landscaping career to be confused with interior design,
and I would never want my writing career to poetically relate to my failed journalism career, even though I still have the credentials to follow through with both careers at once.
I just want my hobbies to no longer increase the value of invalid assumptions on what life means any longer.
I’m killing my ego, not my life.
I’m killing bad rumors and stopping idle gossip from going nowhere fast,
and now the devil cannot take credit for any idle hands as I do not hold a phony hook here.
I hung up the phone long ago,
so why is there a constant call coming back on me?
Why is there an algorithm chasing my tail,
and forgetting that humans got caught in the tailwind?
Do you know that you could use a parabolic thought process if it is rolled up in the mast? Unroll the fabric and now we can set sail off the coast,
and come back just in time to deliver an entire cargo to the freighter,
one that came on a carrier signal,
streamlining our process and so now we can save some money and spend our time figuring out how to get paid for setting ourselves up for success.

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