And my
journal, my hand
And all
these thoughts, jumping
Inside my
head-I
Want to
make them
STOP
I – can’t –
make – it –
STOP
It
Stop
It
Stopped?
And now I long for it to come back!
You see,
this is
An
imitation
Of an
Imitation
Of my
Original poem
‘Cause
walkin’s my muse and all these phrases
Jumbled up
inside my mind- they
Make me
jumbled up
Inside- and
I’m walkin
(awfully) close- but
You don’t
seem to mind- so
I think
I’ll keep on {walkin’} by your side
And every
conversation that you have
I think
I’ll choose to overhear
So please
don’t mine me [or]
If you do-
just
Simply w a l k
a w a y ;
I’m sure
I’ll find somebody else who’ll
Make me
want
To stay
You say
there’s a killer on the loose but I’m not even seventeen so
I
can’t
take
Shortcuts-
I
Can’t
Walk
Alone- and
I feel like S C R E A M I N G
There’s
more killers than you know, more
Victims
Than you
[Choose to]
Recognize
You say the
police sent out a statement
‘cause so
and so left jail x amount of days ago and
now we’ve
got ourselves
someone to
beware of
in your
precious
sheltered
neighborhood-
with
[ g o
d f o r b I d ! ]
I just feel
like telling you
there’s
s o m u c h
m o r e h e r e
to take
heed of
I mean, I
appreciate your concern, man
But I don’t
need to discern
{My} fact
from {your} fiction.
You see,
somewhere in my junkyard mind
Behind
stored messy heaps and
Cluttered
garbage cans
There’s
this button that,
When
triggered,
Tells me
the difference between
{Your}
“true” and {my} “false”
And it
draws me a line to
(Guide me!)
between
reality and dreams-
Though, I
must admit
This line
is some-
Times
Blurry,
Hazy,
Noteventhere
Maybe
you’ll call me crazy
‘cause of
this fact
but I think
you’re a little more bizarre
simply
‘cause of that
so welcome
to my world
on the day
I think I [chose to] become
an
observer-
when I
really wished
there was a
typewriter inside my mind
so every
thought the muses gave me
would be
recorded
and, in
turn,
this poem
would never have been written
nor the one
that came before it-
‘cause the
original,
the one I
imitated twice,
would have
been the (first) one written
all
things happen for a reason, I suppose
if my brain
could talk
if my words
could be graffiti on
the walls
of my
junkyard attic-
{addic}t-ed
to the world,
to spoken word,
to a muse that never stops when I
need it to,
never comes back when I need it to,
never knows the right time.
addicted?
Maybe.
At least it’s not to
something tangible…?
hiiii darling its mae.....this is Amazing work.
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