Clinging onto an ice cold bar, Traveling dismal beams of uncouth thought.
Leaving a fortune in my holey pocket, Realizing my fortune will not fit.
Evening becomes brighter as I try to rest, Balancing on this ice cold bar is surely not best.
Veering alleys of whipping madmen, Messages of fame, must be calling me a twit.
Everything is sideways, or is it all in my head?
Reasoning seems to be lacking as if my brain were molded out of lead.
Seasons are changing and my memory is like an etch a sketch, Travel through the magnetic sand.
Teeming with energy but getting pushed away, Realization of nothing gets shaken away
Understanding the time is not right, Balancing my ideas on the tip of a sword
Puttering stuttering nonsense of swollen mass, Messaging my memory as if the thoughts will stick
Illiteracy seems it would be a gift at this point
Dribbling puttering stuttering nonsense is making me want a joint
--Anonymous Teraist
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