Shell of imaginary imagination

Caught in the tangled weeds of busy nothing.
A mind fraught and frayed in the vines of life.
I wait for god to cut me free.
To untangle my mind.
Yet in my sleepy weariness I hear.
A starlight voice that tickles the back of my neck.
And turns each shake into a shiver.
God whispers.
It’s all an illusion.
Your garden is your own.
And the demons are just voices.
Trying to find new homes.

Little things

They’re little things you worry about.
Stop fretting, relax you mind.
Put aside the fear and doubt.
Happiness will come in time.

Yet I do not live in conscious reason.
I cannot resist to wonder.
That all things change in each passing season.
And it’s the little things that pull you under.