The words don't come fast enough For me to write Let alone recite At an open mic. I'm short on ideas But my thoughts are long and drawn out In vivid colors Like graffiti murals On derailed subway cars... I'm shooting for the moon But keep hitting the stars With random shots-- Random thoughts About random shit That doesn't matter to anybody else.-- To be perfectly honest, They don't even mean anything to myself! I'm bad for my own health like second-hand smoke That I just blew out With the windows closed And the air off... The words can't reach my lips fast enough Because they got stuck in traffic Somewhere between my head and my heart-- Not to mention it's rainy AND dark, Plus no spaces to park, So I'm just hushed until I can find something constructive to say.