I bleed words to no one in particular...
I bleed words for no one in particular...
They show up like condensation on a cold surface...
The chilled glass of an iced drink on a hot day...
Things just happen...
The physics of prose...
Just reporting the facts...
Descriptive observations...
Maybe a half dozen regular patrons stop by for a drink from the well...
Hit or miss beyond this...
Sometimes there's a concert nearby, and I benefit from the tourist overflow...
I'm just a foreigner with local flavor...
An unpretentiously homebrewed IPA...
Droplets gleaming, forming on my surface,
Sliding down like emotionless tears...
These are not tears...
Humidity sweat...
Words like teardrops sounds clichéd and trite...
I don't sling for pity's sake,
I just do what I do the way the scorpion stings the fox after crossing the river on it's back...
It's just nature...
A compulsion...
God knows it's not for payment, or even recognition...
Precious little coin in the larder...
The bottom of the wishing well is just sand and smooth pebbles...
There are tens of thousands like me washed back and forth over the ocean floor through deep sea internet cables...
Electronically screaming into the void because sometimes it just feels good to scream...
Why hold it in?
The cows in the field barely lift their heads, tails flicking flies from their thighs...
I have no expectations despite sometimes imaginings casting sparks in the night...
Popcorn ceiling casting popcorn shadows from the light that I often forget to turn off,
Just below the ever turning ceiling fan that makes those shadows dance and tremble...
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