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I Made My Bed

In a fickle world of chaos, clutter, and condemnation, I spend more time than I should unraveling from yokes of confinement.

I am a creative. A quiet storm. A free spirit

I don't care to be censored by critics; so more often than not, I wrap myself in a complicated cocoon of inner thoughts.

On some days, those frequencies land me into an electric space of "crip walking" on the moon. Other days, my sensitive spirit seeks solace under the bridges of darkness. Away from toxic traces of world elements of contamination that seek to destroy my purpose and annihilate my individuality.

Since I don't subscribe to many popular societal norms, "living on Venus" can be a little disheartening.

I mean...On this calendar year, I set bigger intentions than ever before. I desperately needed to walk into some new flower beds and smell the roses come alive and penetrate my obstructed senses.

I was plum tired of the "bull crap" sprinkled around my steps.

Tired of pounding the pavement in the same "dry" places.

Tired of trying, aspiring, processing, and becoming.  I just wanted to "BE---PERIOD!

This morning, I hopped off the bed and stepped into another level of "accountability".

Who was I kidding?

As a writer, I controlled the narrative. I decided what would occupy space. I set the tone for the future by what I released (into the atmosphere).

My grandma always said, "Be careful what you allow in your bed, cause you gotta lie in it!"

Most mornings, I escaped my "undone bed" in a rush. But this morning, I intentionally made my bed.

I undressed all the soul ties that sat at the foot waiting to climb back in.

I folded the "just in case it got cold" throws and sent them back to the closet.

I was now fully responsible for what I allowed under those 1200 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets.

What "familiar feelings"are you cuffing underneath the covers of your sacred space?


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