Course Correction

08/13/2022

To Bulk Or Not To Bulk

Ok!  I may not… screw it, I will NOT fit in that square hole.  Especially while it’s being submerged in the dirt, psycho.  If anything, we may be coming into a season of bulkness.  Catch me in a cell, if you’re lucky.  I don’t give my digits out to nobody!

In today’s poetic discussion I want to outline what I assimilate to bulk season.  My trunk is thick.  I’m like a great Oak, scratching the door to get out of this acorn shell.  My roots are imprinted in a timeline I do not follow.  The past is the past.  Don’t dwell is all I see when I read my mind what’s scratched into my walls.  There’s blood, sweat and tears aging in jars downstairs.  I don’t go down there!

I ignore people I can’t get to see the real me.  Jokers thinking I’m faking are plentiful.  I laugh out loud hysterically on the inside!  I’m holstering a 20 shot clip, boy.  I’m rubber and you’re glue.  Why I apologize for erecting walls is a question I breathe through.

It’s not on me to read hopefuls minds.  They ought to know they just need to assure me they’re real.  Once I know the cops aren’t getting called, parents aren’t lurking and that I’m accepted I’ll be delivering courtside tickets, empires, rola-indexes full of on-call assistants and stats nobody can even track.

Measuring my success rates is a rabbithole.  I’m not chasing, I’m attracting.  Stats are like anthills I stomp on and run around frantically after disaster because ants climb all over me constantly.  I call them itches.

These competitors are talking to girls talking about licking dudes armpits.  Back up off me, you grease monkey, funny bumps.  Stop even looking at me.

Hey “Mary,” “Amber,” “Anne,” and “Fran,” I love you all so much.  I want to carry you all around on my shoulders.  Chickens fight over popped corn.  I see eye to eye with Thor.  My defense is to ignore so make sure I know that the door is unlocked and non-infringing on my path to higher heights. Please!

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