expelling slavers from your head

see now it can’t quit. Said when pulling out
better turn to garden greenery
but couldn’t. Went right back to sliding

in the sleeve so comfortable, widening
the furrow so moldable; squeal
of the eagle lost faith in echo

and blooms that were blue took beige potions,
and fell to a group droop; oh a few cried
and others crossed arms and gave that glare

like how dare you shrug that used to work,
because we both twisted who owned who.
Thing is, none involved need feel antique;

they just need to understand who it is
who owns who or better, open as wide
as possible for the magical highway


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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