Pen to page.
A parrot would talk to much.
Would lack impulse control.
Kinda like me.
Dicipline. No I do not want to teach.
Not big. Not small. Not teach at all.
I am wondering how long it takes to become. How long I can last like this:
I burn the candle at all ends.
I allude sleep. And it in turn alludes me.
I wrote a poem in the shower. In my head. It almost slipped away. Instead I just looked slightly foolish. I hate the "You're writing poetry?" Words work, twist, splay, and turn. Splish tare, and bare.
They leave everything naked to anothers eyes and judgement.
It's all relevant