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8-7-15

I’m on the hunt for the right thought.
The woods where the words hide
Are too dense for detection.

Mild green salsa 
Drips from the sky above me,
Gooping the top of my head up.

(Nothing I’ve created is to be trusted.
All is a foreign mess to me.)

Mass ended long ago.
They all went in pieces,
Kicking and rolling into cotton balls that 
wisp across my ears 
Through thickets of gnarled thought.

(How I wish to be heard.
How I wish to wish to be heard.)

If only I could remember 
What it was I going to say.

"You can't rely on others," chimes Coach Self,
"Make your own magic."


Copyright © | Year Posted 2015




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