For a hunchback loudmouth with a laptop and too much to say,

Superstition is the hat

the idiot I hate

Is alway wearing.

 

Practical and as dictated as it can be,

Our written language can only guess

At how impractical

The Typist can be.

 

And how aware

And unyielding

The dumbfuck in the

"Im scared of the nothing something"

Hat

Can begin

Can continue

To lay down the world in bent and agreed upon code,

Only to shrug his practice of creation

To take an extra step

And yield to the apex of every ladder's crest.

 

It isnt fear,

But a prayer

To the "I hope I'm a nothing something too"

That guides my step

And keeps me believing in these thin

Black

Bent shapes.