thoughts adapt for becoming words.
thoughts before then, that moment,
free like birds.
thoughts like little blue angels with long white wings
devouring to become
some lesser things,
below the topsoil and up-and-becoming
a thing blooming: a thing beautiful with long white legs
it isn't me.
i'm speaking with my necktie:
a long-legged cloud
walking across the mountain lines
"it is littering my life with rain."
how sick and worried i am, i'm sorry.
tired eyes whine for a beer
this is life.
let's go someplace
to bring small chats with wrong words:
where thoughts are wrongly formed
into gangsters and thugs
they come out of my mouth
and you will make a sad mouth.
always fighting for nobody to care
this is my commentary on the world.
we are not there
they are not here
there are no words for forming