I am obsessed with the thought that
anything with teeth bites.

Our words have
lips our lips have
arms yet our fingernails are the culprits that say they’re sorry.

Why is it that I
appreciate shame when
it affects the light
in the room?

What a beautiful sight:
The blood on the walls makes
your eyes look more blue and
you didn’t invite
me here but I suspected
you’d entertain my lack of concern for the wild
bunnies you kill.

Never mind that you carry
a pen as your lethal weapon.
You kill these non-thinkers
you poison their ignorance with
your words.

You Hyperactive Motor Mouth.

Don’t you have an audience waiting?
Don’t you understand that
for every shot you make
it costs you words?

The lights are getting
whiter when did you last
get inspired are you spinning
yet I’m not scared of colors…


Are you?