Thursday, April 9, 2009


The open door is an open mouth and I feel it wants to spout me out to roam about,

exhume me south from my dwelling with an expelling exhalation so I don't sprout roots binding my shoes to this plain plane of blue cobbled carpet.
Sitting still feels like a nut about to bust wanderlust is nuts.
What winds me up so my spine whines when sitting emitting an electric neuron impulse to neurotically pace post-haste and quit when exhausted?
Hunger's an energizer but milling isn't filling the quota I dote over very often: how many places I've been in per minute aught to've caught my accountant's attention but not a move takes away tension.
I'm pensive, pent in when standing in an open landing, a clearing with stars for a ceiling isn't selling me fulfilling healing I'm wondering then wandering mentally and physically shifty.
Could be a gift, for he who drifts most lifts his glass in glad toast to more sights than men who keep in the lights.
Exploring isn't trailblazing when someone has been there before or no follower blasts stumps 'til the path's cleared, pebbles laid and smoothed grooveless by sandals, hacked thoroughfares our handles on undiscovered lands fair and inviting.
My motor's cranked permanently so I attempt the accent more energetically than my peers in lower gears.

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