Do you ever shiver your mind into your throat?
Feel the friction, turning your words to saw dust. The brain herbs ground to grain.
A shell of imposed impressions,
superimposed on the restless faces
haunting you in your lonely.
Not knowing how to shed the skin of days words,
or collapse from the embracing social sensation
Letting go, running go, collecting
The Magic Tollbooth let's you grow down with these words.
Loving anatomy not physiology,
loving your response to your reaction.
Following your footsteps walking on your hands.
As if the world can't see you blinding yourself with a table cloth, crouched in footy pajamas with that typewriter. Plinking away the stutters skidding scabs on your way.