Blood for ink,
the page for flesh,
and few words for character
description;
their imprint does stain,
the pinprick storyline
of a feeling—
I would sit and count
for minutes,
hours,
days,
months,
years,
etc.
but sitting is not conducive
to good movement, patience does nothing
except waste time
and progress
and dull the mind…
They may say: relax, let it pass.
that time; what could be
a particular goal seen to fruition.
Those who hold the ties that bind,
the keys we need,
are working steadily behind my
eyes,
the nerve—these nerves,
and more; each synapsis connects to
the message passed,
this circuit board commanding:
a knee jerk,
a hand slap,
an orgasm,
twitching muscles going to
bed—as you rock to zzzzzzzzzz.
Found out in between,
no verse to discuss,
no song to critique,
just the rigid clock’s tick,
and those who run by it (and from it):
they tell us what to do—
how to eat sleep and breath—
where to be, what to wear, how to look,
when and where—
there—and how to see.
Now who tells you how to be?
