they finalize, they dramatize, they find a fuse within you;
they they speak the lines out of rehearse just to continue.
these are the dreams, these are the screams you have inside that spin you:
but to the shallow, flat of mind, it's just not even an issue
they limp the walk, and slur the talk, they are the script printed on tissue.
if you're it, then-just to fit, they'll copy-paste-and-print you
if you want to fit in, than to begin, now just forget what is "you"
i see you wading to the shallow end; i just wanted to say,
"i'll always miss you."
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little black journal
just everything; poems mostly
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Humous
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