Oh my god, writing poems is so easy once you're on a roll.
Jesus, what is it with me and moths?
Your voice claws its way up my spine
a million thoughts away and its times
like this that I think of happiness, and
my fingers that spell 'everything but' down
my temples, and how it screams
only of car motors, different State's dialects
a black endless carpet to dance along
to the farthest corners of the Earth
but it's just easier to sit here
whispers in my ear
than letting everything break loose -
running down the street screaming
the thousand screams I've kept quiet.