Not shy, scared
of what I can

and cannot say,
because all my

opinions state
that I don't care.

Conversations
are a drag—

I smoke, I drink,
and they all tell me
the same things.

I listen,
but not quite.

Then again,
I'm forever
repeating myself,

and no one
ever,
*******,

listens, to me.

The fact is
my mind's
a miniature
circus—

thoughts are
the fleas,

jumping back and
forth
from ideas

thin as tightropes,
air dry as cotton, a
stoners mouth.

I can't even
listen to myself.