The words don't come fast enough
For me to write
Let alone recite
At an open mic.
I'm short on ideas
But my thoughts are long and drawn out
In vivid colors
Like graffiti murals
On derailed subway cars...
I'm shooting for the moon
But keep hitting the stars
With random shots--
Random thoughts
About random shit
That doesn't matter to anybody else.--
To be perfectly honest,
They don't even mean anything to myself!
I'm bad for my own health
like second-hand smoke
That I just blew out
With the windows closed
And the air off...
The words can't reach my lips fast enough
Because they got stuck in traffic
Somewhere between my head and my heart--
Not to mention it's rainy AND dark,
Plus no spaces to park,
So I'm just hushed until
I can find something constructive to say.