A tongue-tied guide of ones mind.

Legs made of rubber and a spine that shudders

leaves a mind full of thoughts yet nothing to utter

for letters turned to numbers within an incoherent mutter

like 1's lost four words, mind full of clutter

talking with a heart aflutter amidst a love stricken stutter

for how can fall for another when it was lone recovered

and the lover that suffered.

Anxious the question.

 Muscle pumps blood with racing beats 

derailed thoughts to run from the seat

where complete became obsolete 

a thinking parrot upon the streets of ideas on repeat

flying in knots as breath deletes 

fighting unconsciousness where the heart deadbeats.

No solo walks for only the parrot squawks

no meets and greets for the sake of the internal talks.

The blackout blues of, who the fuck are you?

Escape, escape.

Days filled with impending doom

no room to breath inside expanding tombs

just phases of mazes living in claustrophobic catacombs

shivering cold with no clothes, for it's where you can only wear what darkness looms 

no sun just moon of cascading booms of celebratory tunes 

reverberates the exodus of deflated balloons that bleed the air from exit wounds

for escape is but a breathless muse that lies in it's ruse 

that gets lost in it's complacency, of dejected clues.