June 3, 2011
i move to the beat of my own drum.

trying to keep up with the soaring birds above my head.

these high expectations make my bed.

i don't care for these straight lines or any written guidelines.

i write over them with my best to keep them at their worst.

the stale taste of polluted air.

with this i wake you up little one

with a jolt

as if you're falling

you catch yourself and breath

realize it was all just a bad dream

hear these words i plead.

that will never come to be.

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