I like quoting movies-

A lot.

I sometimes forget that the world

Isn’t privy to my inner dialogue;

If the world could hear my thoughts,

it would get lost, buried,

under the running, swirling stampede of thoughts.

They mill around, mulling over words

like “yodel”-

why is it so much fun to say slowly?

And the paradox that dictionaries are.

They mature, until they taste remotely like

peppermint tea that has brewed for too long,

then kind of tumble out at odd moments.

I really, really, really hate oatmeal

and stuffing.

Anything described with “mushy”

doesn’t sit well with me or my stomach.

Neither do bridges.

They make me queasy and scared.

This poem is about: 


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