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"A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures." The Picture of Dorian Gray

Friday, August 13, 2010

twenty-six: monsters inside.

for the first time
in a long while
there are words
inside me
that can't escape.

they cant find a way out
probably because these busy hands
haven't given them alone time
with a simple
utensil, the pen.

the words just bounce
and scatter
like those water droplets
above that basin
hanging in mid air,
still for barely a blink
before crashing and assimilating
into the bowl of my brain
once more.

there is alliteration on my tongue,
an alligator in my brain,
a pain in my ankle,
and a rift in my subconscious...
all because
there are worlds
stuck
like monsters inside me.

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