I'm amidst the middle of the the great mist of trouble,making a masterpiece out of mud.
  I taste the rug in the dust on my tongue,clasping for a fresh breath.beasting emotion poking around,in the toasted taste,generation last place.
  My figure of speech spreads wiseley on a white sheet.
I'm popping balloons one by one. in big tiny vision,clouds shed fur, becoming manic blur.