I am what I breathe....
Stale crumbs scatter and maybe choke
a throat dried,
lubricating nothing but tonsils of voice,
locked in a box of silence and tricks.
Hidden layers under a pile of jumble
scattering material that enter my head.
Is it what I see in a mirror that is cracked
or an actor of sanario's
scripted and rehearsed.
Nor is nothing when the pen quill run's to dry
scattering feathers from an old four poster bed
rippling ideas sprung mattress to mind
and I breathe.. just to write.



I am intrigued and excited to read more of your works




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