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Locked Out

The more I think about it, being locked out is not so bad. No internet, no computer, no instruments, no canvases and paints, no stacks of books, or bills to settle, and reports to read. Just me, a dog-eared manual, and a journal that only accepts black ink. And for the first time in a long time I’m serenaded by the rustle of leaves, the sound of the wind, by the creaking swings, and the laughter of children.

Regrets
By the faded yellow slide
In the center of an aging park
I sit mourning
That life has past
Without warning