nothing great to write about,
but just a broken string
of words without
punctuation, focus,
or meaning,

in moments that produce
only foot steps in
the mud,
the process of typing
equals
the act of stomping feet,

racing over egg shells,
tracing fingers and eyes
across the page and
up and down the street,

wander lust
and daydreams
are important to me.

 
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