Who makes you feel like I make me feel?
Focusing on the inner dialogue and externalizing my thoughts is an endeavor I soon hope to attain. All alone pumps in stereo through my ears with the Rastafarian accent obliterating my original intent. Inspiration once sprang from a well, now I pass information like my intestines discard pork products or greasy food.
Illiterate in the social sphere of pre-emptive courtesies and Bangkok’s of influential neuro-synaptic Jesus hopping partitioned souls, my essence twitches in safe mode clicking and firing off one by one.
If I could translate my language into a comprehensible sandwich to consume, Peanut Butter.
And Jelly.
Jelly is the optimal describor, the denatured floodless. Which tastes better on toast? Dysfunctional or the former?