I desperately, desperately, DESPERATELY need someone to talk to about Mafia Harem. Desperate.
I bubble,
I gush,
the black lead of creativity oozes
and flows from my limbs and heart,
from the pockets around my eyes
and tunnels in my ears.
I cannot stop the flow.
The buckets and pails do nothing more
than fill,
and fill,
and fill till there is no more room left.
And I try to speak,
to let you know how troublesome it is,
but the dark oil floods my lungs and gurgles forth,
spilling over my lips and onto the floor.
I'm sorry,
I know I am.
I'm desperate and my attempt to stop,
is thwarted at every corner.
I need an ear to whisper in,
a place to shout.
I've got so many ideas and frustrations
there's nothing else I want to talk about.
Mafia Harem.
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Fragmented Self who wanders through life like a dreamer and wades through the river of dreams as though it were the only truth left in this world
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