Would you please tell me how I can find peace of mind.

I’m told it happens when we allow ourselves to grieve.

It seems there are too many hours in a day to relax,

always a cornerstone nearby needing to be polished.

I’d rather the rough edges be the original attraction,

then the conscious effort to alter our own inspiration.

Everyday in our lives contains the same variables,

only it matters how we let them permeate heart and soul.

I remember one time when I used to write with freedom,

less conscious of the implication, left with sweet innocence.

It’s that pattern of judgment will always impede our will.

Wonderful are the days we may be ravished by beauty,

that still life of happiness embedded in our dreams.