i spend so many hours biting my tongue and pretending to be someone else that i cant write shit. i feel jacked-up, like this post is a pair of sexxxy panties that got bunched in between my butt cheeks. the words are handfuls of sand...I cant talk to myself without yelling...i wanna kick myself, beat myself with the metal sprinkler head from which my thoughts spray...hurry up, i scream at each psychadelic drop of raging brain water. do something! make something happen! get me out of here! i dont know where, just not here!
it's like i've forgotten how to sit here and let it flow...ass-o-c-ayshun style. ha. i've read enough freud to know there's no such thing as "free", nevertheless, im a firm believer in flow. flow is the hip in yr hop and the spring in yr step. it's the rhythm to how u do things when there's no one to listen too and u smoked enuff to get yr mind right or else after u ran a couple of miles like a champ or worked on a painting that's finally startin to come out alright.
flow is the ineffable grease that keeps yr shit feelin state of the art, instead of state of the FART.
yards of flow