ryelle

Sleep, that dirty bastard; always evading, always fucking shit up.

I write nonsensical "poetry" when I can't sleep.

On the Art of Escapando:
Great bubbles of air
Up the esophagus
Caught in the throat
Jailed: fer yer own good
Really
They're just squatters here
Yet they shall not, cannot
Go!
So they grow, they grow
And still
I say, they shall not go
Oh dear.
They've conspired against me
Incorrigible, really

Escapando!