Dawdling across sidewalks,
bus stops and bars; trying new flavours of beer and cigars; waiting for the right face, the right word, the right taste. Jittering upon a stage; tossing words where there’s space. I don’t chase money and fame: I chase chances to be kind -- may I call you honey? I just want it to rhyme. I hunt rhythm in this moment’s geography; I look for synonyms to put on my autobiography. Being the way you breathe is what you can't regain; I take words of that as ours flames wane. So, call me a writer a poet, a human, a bum, a fool, whatever: I’ll never be more or less of what I really am: just a kid t y n o i g with a pen.
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