Hokey but Not Quite

I saw a raccoon on my walk home tonight and it was a little bit beautiful, the mangy little thing. Round and tumbling. More beautiful is being the subject of a poem, and the most beautiful is that feeling you get when half way through winter you don't care about the shitty season anymore because there are sunnier things to be thinking.

I was told once I said the word "beautiful" too often, and also that I spoke it with an accent. Well hot damn, that's okay, isn't it?

P.S. "A commentary on a dream in which my spirit guide, Danny DeVito, killed me via several (unnecessary) gunshots to the spine. And in case you were wondering about the great beyond, 'The afterlife is just like life except you can only talk + be seen by like 2 people. You wander the earth. That's it.' What a bummer!"