Always hated that superfluous feeling
The inability to conform to fluorescent pastures
That unfit heart of mine in all its too much
The way it gets puffed out from waking
How it rejects the daily perjury
And will not mistake the nine to five for truth
Somedays I eat up fear when I cannot stomach food
And the advertising billboards beat me up
Car horns beeping sound like the apocalypse
I wonder why I am still trying lie down
On the last little patch of grass
When the sheep in ties have munched on it all
But sometimes the breeze taps me on the shoulder
And it all comes together like a symphony
Of pens scrawling paper journals
Of dogs barking trying to speak
Of the oceans waves throwing tantrums
Of tree branches nuzzling each other
Of bicycle tires gliding the streets
Of poetry readings in dim lit light
Of adults on children’s playgrounds
Of her reaching orgasmic bliss
Because I will not live my days
Photocopied by a receptionist
Wearing polyester shirts
The prosaic makes me nauseous
I do not want to feel the static of small talk
I want to feel the symphonies of being


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