These words don't flow like they should. Pieces fall imperfectly around the words I try and form.
These stumbling and shaking fingers atop the paper don't glide as they should.
The words come out quaky and messy. Just like my mind.
Jumbled.
Unable to flow from my brain evenly or steadily.
Broken.
Inadequate.
Lost.
YOU ARE READING
Coffee and Ink Stains
Poetrythis one's for the dreamers, the wild ones, the imperfect.