This is my process and I’m not ok with it
I’m not swallowing it without a fight
Babbling long lines of dribble down my chin
With my wits left somewhere down the hall I’m not going back
…
Catch up to the statements
And leave some kind of order behind,
Stuffed in a shirt pocket that now sits
Bundled into a non-symmetrical clump.
“This is order?” I scream at the walls,
Figuratively clawing my way to the top of the jar;
Fingernails raw with contempt for sanity,
Chalk lines drawn with my saliva
In spirals that lead to nowhere
And a greasy smear on my chest that has been there
Since the day I was (re)born.