morning moans mourning the lack of moments spent

mocking monumental strings of membranes

splattered across the sky, while muster stains look better

in day-glow raves while clenching a plastic bottle of water

and hoping the turtles don’t mind

keyboard strokes made to look hazardous,

when really the words rarely come out spelled correctly,

or meaning what i intend,

but maybe that’s the point, and i don’t want to be understood,

though that’s probably the chamomile talking,

it makes me kinda rebellious

Fred Aiken Writing