Tell Me About When I Was Born

These weird uncharted pavers inside my head

Break bread hourly with my monotonous life I dread.

Ragtop down, with spit in my eyes,

Every dream I’ve gleamed, I start to realize.

Casting centipede feelers onto wooly white canvas,

Black sheepish charred edges, frame my flighty crows from Kansas.

Words laced with brevity charm me to my toes,

Their ideas of grand imagination engage a writer’s marriage proposed.

If only I could write as fast as I think,

I’d be a pithy punny without having to think.

Overripe with new seeds spilling to waste,

Witnessing what happens when thoughts are encouraged to baste.

Boiling the stories inside of me raw,

But I’ll always have a tale ready to tell, that is more than ten feet tall.

~m

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