In Arkansas,
and beneath the willow tree,
there exists a channel,
inside of me,

Behind the waves,
and inside my soul,
a rhythm of sorts,
and it is old,

Smoky effervescence,
and quiet chill,
the thought provokes,
a measured thrill,

My shackled brain,
and abstract mind,
alter experiences,
I think you’ll find,

To form brittle restraints,
  and foregone conclusions,
they cause manic states,
and worried delusions,

Of words and weapons,
the weapons are words,
they tell a story,
I thought you heard,

Of tricky sentences,
and abstract rhymes,
the factions fracture,
inside my mind,

Stringent orders,
  form pointless commands,
they direct my actions,
to do more harm,

And for myself,
this is not the end,
and for myself,
I grow used to it again.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s