writing on auto-pilot,

flying on a wing and a prayer.

words flow like water here,

but hence-force,

once they start, they stop making sense.

and i

just observe the clitter–clatter of my key board keys,

on my broken -down lap-top

right here in front of me…

wondering why,

do I even try to string together,

sentences like pearls or strands

of fabulous, fantastic beads.

This garnish of the random-

word-parsley on my plate.

Writing on automatic, it’s so hard-

to articulate. A feeling. or a Moment..

I grasp this beaded necklace-

of my words, and dangle them dancing

by and by

my ears,

yet they fall silent

upon retrospection.

I gasp aloud at my reflection.


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