Abusing gibberish to correspond context and manic finger pokes for ears to clear the barriers of polite conversation, ignored, prodded and given to the dogs for censorship, after I’m stripped of flesh, apologize for the spotlight shimmering off my naked skeleton.
To sing off key like a telegram from the throat of a heartbroken crooner.
To give grief.
To say, “HEY. I’m sorry for being myself.”
The parting language is thus:
I’m a burden.
A low-key turncoat in the struggle for meaningful highs and lows.
I want to hello…but once engagement commences
I’ll stop texting so much.
I don’t know why I send paragraphs.
I’m not trying to be poetic.
I’ll stop texting.
I’ll stop being obnoxious.
Hostile influence insists I stay my fingers above the home-keys, a floating reminder of the space facilitating from sent-respond-ignore. To
“Quote the Raven nevermore.”