I have a lit lamp in my heart.
I cover it with a thick blanket.
There is plenty of food in my cart.
I can’t even afford it, and put it on credit.
There is a chain the connects me,
To a large oak desk.
I cut myself free,
Just to tie it to a flask.
The day time warms my skin,
The sun gives life to this planet,
Yet I often sleep in.
The moon keeps my desk dimly lit.
Hiding what should be shown.
Never going back.
Creating bad habits.
Taking the path, of least resistance.
Primitive Poetry 
growth does not happen in the bright of day, it happens at night. we feed off the light and then set to work in the dark.
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Hmmmm, there’s a thought…might write something along those lines
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🙂 a pip.
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