My mind is running.
As if there was a minuscule triathlon, is occurring currently as I presently write this line.
Or this line.
I stand behind all the lines I draw.
It's probably too much.
It's probably plaid.
Probably.
I call them my safe zones.
But they don't shield me.
Regrettably, they disarm me
Chasten my soul.
The scent of rust, robust.
It has removed the ability to smell.
But this girl Flonase, she has hands that help me breath.
A condition developed through the consumption of pollen.
Rather than building a resistance, I have become its prisoner.
Just like these lines.
They have made me a prisoner.
Don't yours too?
I think that you can only have so many lines.
Too much food and the full man hurls.
I'm not full.
These lines have strict diet.
But these new jeans are quite the riot.
Radicals.
But I've never seen you wild.
Only speak about it in passion.
Where's your passion.
I asked myself that they other day.
While I was running.
YOU ARE READING
Sleep Diction
PoetryA collection of things I write. Whenever they come to me. Enjoy. I appreciate any feedback. Welcome it even.
