The sap pouring from my mind
Doesn’t always flow like milk and honey.
The gears clog and don’t unwind
Stopped by a wrench thrown
Into the cogs until they grind.
Refine this sap. Boil it down.
Heat it to two-hundred nineteen degrees
One quart from the gallons in which I drown
Now take that quart, and pour it over
The gears, slowed down by that thick brown.
I want to know what you, the reader, thinks. Consider leaving a comment and I will reply!
Primitive Poetry 
The mental stuff put so correctly. Goosebumps
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Thank you, I hope that it gives you an opportunity to considered how you refine your art.
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I had to read this poem twice to get the meaning ( or what I think would be the meaning). Nevertheless, it’s mindboggling how accurate it is.
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Coming back to this piece I wish I had notes to understand where I was at that point in my life. Perhaps that is the meaning of it. This poem is the refined sap, and now here I am allowing it to be poured back into the gears at this moment. It slows me down, but also shows the refined product (if I so wish to relate a poem to capitalism).
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My first impression was a reminder of writer’s block… or a blank canvas which needs just a smear of color to get things started.
Art
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