Waiting time is the incubation period;
waiting is wasting. Waiting is unproductive.
Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting,
waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting...

I am the only one allowed to define myself.

Smudged intuition, perched on the
branch of "know life no-nothings";
granted, I know what you're thinking.
You think "My face is a maze, and my
clothes just hide me, scar me in
lathered tenants of blue and cream,
and seize me." I'm away on a fairy
plane, a train, zooming down oceans
and street ways, lit lamps that whisper,
banter gaily in the nightfall of Dooms Day;
a time of departure and inspiration and
incrimination. A sense of fire, youth lit
and glossing--stronger, tougher;
we are overflowing with temptations.
The meek, the wealthy, the strong guts
and hole punchers. It's a tainted euphoria,
home of the glazed locked phase. And
here I lay, staring at your threaded eyebrows
and pumps; long legs, thin, perfect. Makeup.
It's a flyaway, a spark. Here, in the present.
Now, in the moment, swiftly floating,
ballooning up to a purposeless roadshow.
I love the wind. The current. I'll figure out
where the smoke takes me; inhaling the fumes
to toxicity. I will enrage the status quo, and
to odds and ends this rage will keep on
busting up the curves and loquacious spindles.