I can’t write hasty words fast like the speed of light; throw in a few broken pieces of glass, cuts on skins, show the darkest nooks of a soul that has bludgeoned under an escalated sense of anguish; I wish for an obsessive to cry out through my teeth break them in a beauty of the metal that bares its nails yet sings a symphony an orchestrated madness yet a hero with the sword a stairway of staccato words yet dissonantly coordinated old-fashioned, demure, cultured yet architecturally corrupted First published at Duane's PoeTree