Now.
Checkered pants
Singing when there’s noise
The most novel, dubious slant
Jittery, cracked; hands, voice.
Vein across the forehead
Touching corner of the eye
Dressed up in suits and eating bread
With nothing underneath, but stale rye.
One, just one eerie flowering tree
Got Dainty flowers and stress all mixed
And muting yourself when you’re about to pee
Longing, not trying, to get it all fixed
Can’t get enough of Clattering ice cubes
Nor staying up till 2 waking up
during a storm, thinking your house
is flooding but it’s (just) your mind.

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