I Want To Write

My brain won’t sit still enough and the words are dancing.

There’s screaming in my head, they won’t shut up:

‘You know the lemon fiddle fiscal disc is whiskey whisk patched up followed all the way down’.

It doesn’t even make sense.

But then there’s:

‘They’re coming what do you do when they come hide hide you can’t hide to nowhere they come to hide too you’re stuck runner’.

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