I Talk Too Much

They roll out like a pastry crust
Hitting the floor, rolling open
Like a floppy, alabaster carpet.
Like burning steam out a vent:
Relieving the pressure within–
But scalding passer-bys.
I try to reign in the urge to purge
Inner dilemma, straining miserably.
If I let the baggage fall off
Another may pick up the fare
(Which isn’t fair at all.)
If the pastry crust rolls out–
If the bumpy carpet trips–
If I choke and the words gurgle up
Everything else disappears.
Friends become faceless.
There is no space between my mouth
And a functional ear.
There are too many configurations
Of old, visible scars
That speak for themselves
Without saying any words.
But I speak of them anyway
Like a murder of crows
That has become apathetic
Towards the sounds of gunfire.


Lay an Egg

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