Blood to your brain should drain your refrain
You should have no excuse for life
why not embrace, get every taste
You can try to fit on your tongue
sit in the coffee shop with the evening clang
of mugs and espresso breath
and write more bad poetry~she says
the little tick in your brain, leaves you impatient
and never tolerant. You bend to winds of your own internal battle
bloodied and scarred
The moment you feel frightened of eye contact and gazing souls
you wished you could be called comfortable in your own
scaly skin ,crusty and dry
your prickly tongue
interrupts your thoughts
indian buffet : regurgitating and acidic
secondly, tasting
lastly breathing
Will your brain grow to fit your desires
the pull on the less intelligent
but intensely inclined
Memories and interactions stored
in deep recesses of tissue
to call them by name and reconnect them
the moment you want
called dreaming
