just me and Howard Hughes
viewing life from kleenex box shoes
the feel of flimsy cardboard pressed squarely on my soul
my feet in the struggle for distance never grows old
or does it?
Is lunacy a fancy or a feeling?
it is a feeling of falling down into the void
spiraling and spinning without control
swatting imaginary bugs or putting pickles on my head
I have to do this everyday. What? Until I’m dead?
No wonder I’m a nut bag in this salad of monotony
My crazy needs a hug; it’s lonely in mentality.