Don’t Tell Me What to Do, Brain!

A little ray of sunshine.

Pat my chest, 

That’s right, 

Squeeze my lungs. 

The serotonin started again, 

At the end of my illness, 

Wheeling about on greasy feet again, 

Wasted convalescence. 

And germs outside my window, 

Which have cloyed in such suspense, 

Sweep me off my feet, 

As soon as I’m ready to get out bed. 

Dust on the roads, 

Or has it been thrown up in the air, 

Dead skin and wasted ambitions, 

Lifetimes waiting to be ravished, 

But never a ravisher to be, 

The clinging stick I carry, 

On the end of dried lips, 

Gives me heart, 

Makes me active, 

Always pushing forth, 

Or burning down, 

Until the end arrives, 

The moments I abort. 

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