Twitching Hands

The house is tidy and I'm all done, nothing more to sing un-sung.

And here I sit with the itch of what more, moving and grooving me to please for move some sore.

I see these women in Vogue and Vanity Fair pleading cases so close to the chair and I want to be of that turn but then am afraid of how it may burn.  And Yes, I am afraid.

My twitchy hands be twitch'n, my itchy scratchy life be fill'n some but not sure wait we be wait'n.

My voice and story are not extraordinary but my intention is gold, my root is center fold and what I have to offer is nothing but "give me more til I'm old."

I sit, I wait, I anticipate that Thomas Moore Vibrate that jacked me to give more than take.

I will offer the world a voice of what can be of and what can be of when--I just am okay if the world is my sons, husband, relatives and friends that seek vise.  I do not have expectation of more than what is sight.

I am not afraid.
I am of remembrance story for the open and the deep red cherry before the bed.