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Average
Writing has become quite difficult for me,
the more I live.
Thoughts of daily trauma
piled on my back, sky high.
Disorganized and confound.
My elaborate thoughts,
spill out in simple words.
Choppy fragments of stupid tongue.
I cannot explicate my ideas and points of view
any longer.
I am far too young for mature syllables and consonants;
hollow intellect is perfumed. Absorbed.
.
I have lost what made me, a human.
Everyone is a writer these days.
Wake up at sunrise,
with mimosas and profound words on paper.
With such ease.
With a thesaurus and a turned up nose.
I am a dud of sorts and
mainstream once again.
Fine.
