Off to the races
hand versus mind
thoughts running a mile a minute
tightly gripped felt tip pen engraving each line
like a scalpel against skin during an autopsy
or a pitch fork piercing the earth in search of hidden treasures
poetic asylum from the norm of rap star aspirations
I wanna be a rock star
forget spell check
these thoughts will wait for no mans corrections
perfection?
not here!
just running at top speed
not looking back to see who could be near bringing up the rear
just running
trying to catch my breath
trying to pace myself
fingers weakening from running laps around these blue lines
but these thoughts are not waiting
the feeling is urging
I need to spill this ink…

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