Monday, May 9, 2011

Her name rhymes.
Matching syllables,
only broken by tradition.

Cloaked in black she sits and stares
half expecting him in the high beams.
Travelers beside her unaware
of the ever bursting seams.

Her mind goes blank
drown out the hateful sounds of nonsense
and replace them with a different kind.

Pick, Pick, Pick.
Perfection at it's worst.
Rhyming unintentionally clicks
and that's how the mind is cursed.

Patterns all about
no one can pick them up
bunnies die when they get too lonely.

Broken playlist of trash
unable to see them listen
insignificant crash
and back to God again.


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