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You sometimes like things that are obscene and sexual and megaphone their voice into your skull;
the cacophony covers and lets rest your thoughts.
You like this control sometimes.

You choose your shoes like you choose your purpose in life;
the distance touched by them is greater than or equal to your height.
Eventually they are equal though.

You feel motivated by creating a Dream House for your thoughts to try on clothes and feel pretty;
a few (sometimes all) of these thoughts drive away in a Dream Corvette
that combusts when it reaches speeds higher than 205 miles per hour.

Distractions

She waits through times
dusty with habits and expectations,
for a premeditated hope of flight.
An escape from time’s jagged tic-toc chain.

Body drifts across sand and becomes dunes;
Tongue fondles ambrosias and kisses;
Eyes create photographs kinetic;
Lungs pulse in glass air;
Ears flutter with waves, wind, wild.

Heavy minds sit comfortably on the senses
but unceasingly thoughts prick often;
for immediate pleasures
are only pincushions for a pricky psyche.

Searching, scraping, scouring through dictionaries of words
for the perfect combination to medicate
the attack of mind on mind.

But can peace be heard from any string of words,
or should she strive to keep senses alive
for fear of an early demise?