Frames Of Emotion
Sometimes
the little
itty
bitty
slivers
of
bliss
and
frustration,
so
minuscule
in
nature,
make
us
happy
as a kid
with
an
ice
cream
cone,
or make
us
roar
loud
in
anger
like a
jet,
oh ponder
this,
the
last straw,
you
never
hear
that
a
brick
broke
the
camels
back,
people
are
rarely
as
angry
at the
more
immense
slabs
of
ill
fortunes
rotted
meat
on
their
plate
of
dilemmas
and
emotional
gristle,
the sunrise,
like cranberry
and
orange
mimosas
in the
sky,
only
a small
moment
of life,
makes
our
hearts
warm like
a sweet
soft
kiss,
the fly
that lands
on your
steak
and
you
want to
hurl
your
plate
like
a frisbee
in disgust,
on a
beautiful
day,
oh
savor
the
joyous
vignettes
of
memory,
sometimes
they're
rare
as
a
bloody
blood
moon
and
when
the
frames
of
nasty
luck
whoosh
by
the
Windows
on your
jet
of
destiny,
kick
and
fight
hard
to have
amnesia
of such
things,
for they
are like
the pesky
fly,
and so
very slow
to die,
cling
for
dear
life
to
every
thing
that
is
good,
and
kick
back
in
the comfy
cush
chair,
take a
deep
breath
and
savor
the
taste
of
whatever
you
are
drinking.
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