I want to choke on my own words. Wavering and stuttering: not an option.
I want the full. The full frontal. The wham-bam.
I want crash course.
Come to me, speak to me, remind me of my contents. The fierce part.
And my sacred ability to express my scars, and wonder-wander constellations of light year stars, byproducts of being too-late too-long at bars, slow-blinker-for-ever-shit-drivers in cars…
I’ll take it.
Distracted in the door jam, I am. Waiting for the some revival jolt.
So kick my legs out and have me begging for a way to say what my mouth hasn’t known yet.
A person can walk around feeling freed of emotions like shaker salt peppering them out liberally, honestly. You can even spread your feeble gosple, no? But it turns out that determination can’t be told between apples and oranges with out a palpable type result. Just when you thought the truth was self evident. Damn it, George.
Tell me how can you speak so frivolously about your heart mind? How can your cards show like that? Like low low low.
Was I taught to hide? There’s so much work to do. To mend oration. And delight in bent diction.
My words they tumbled but sang dust-wind as they did so, and it seems that’s all was heard, and now I understand the song well better.
Laugh; be mad; be merry.
Turn lights on, convulse, define.
Daytime mimicry moderation
Pale. Silly, bright you. Glow on.
Shine fully for so I don’t slip banana-peel-optimism, sweet-tooth-cheer, cavity, crack me with your smile. I’ll take it all. Reverse purge.
Curses, blessings, mundane prayer power.–
The calmest mind gets to rest and you know that’s not why I am here.