Reality makes
me sick. Going through laugh track
cop show withdrawal.
Writer’s strike
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Reality makes
me sick. Going through laugh track
cop show withdrawal.
Speed-viewing seasons
one through three’s like life in the
hatch. Push the button.
Never read the play
before you see it performed.
There’s too much drama.
I stop posting in
the blogosphere. No one reads
me. Do I exist?
With short hair he looks
like a grey human baby.
He’ll never talk back.
Intention shines high
above like a star I see
and dream of reaching.
The more I write the
more I lose my hold on words
that speak without me.
My fingers talk my
eyes listen my head makes it
up my heart hungers.
Commute through fiber
optic cable to a home
built by words not deeds
Cruzan pineapple
flavored rum makes happy hour
even happier.