Outlook

Looking out the window,

We do not see the same outlook in our view.

Please forgive me if this is déjà vu,

As mixed as what to call gumbo, a soup or a stew?

With a quill my art and my heart grew,

Or maybe it was my 6th or 7th brew.

Every time it feels so real.

My unknown technique doesn’t care about mass appeal.

I’m a recluse and I’m housed in steel.

My faith and God’s love congeal.

Don’t give me another pill.

I want and I need to feel.

A new awakening as fresh as a Florida orange peel.

Like a person deciding when’s the right time to kneel.

That seems to be more complicated then justifying civilians killed.

Turn on the news, let’s have a thrill.

Let’s read between the lines on Capitol Hill.

You can do anything you want, just pay in hundred-dollar bills.

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