RSS SPIRIT

She pounds the Starbucks,
"But we are getting off course."
You dig in and, refusing railroaded,
you drive home a truthful train of thought.

Always smile, never sweat, nothing
is a problem, yes we can you bet.
Do they hate me? Scared? Bored?
Caffeinated attempts at accord.

Selling is your gyroscopic fiddler.
Your center motion doubt quelling
type balancer. A shirt starched
one man band where ideas are marched.

Shake hands collect cards,
we will annoy each other later.
To make it look easy is hard,
when really you bring it like a freighter.

The peroxide women cram the bus,
another day of worry and fuss.
There I sit on a neglected bench.
Do not miss it, implores an old friend.

"But I have been to the moon," I say
and wave the bus away.
The moon is terrible and beautiful,
you cannot breathe but still strain
to consume the white ball light round.

The bench abuts against some woods,
reddish mud and a wide sky.
I say let the bus go by,
for I have been to the moon
and it changes you.

When trying only makes the crying
more what to do? Freak out.

Laugh to yourself, mutter
and putter hands a flutter.
Foxholes makes us all devout,
another term for constant freak out.

Vertigo is one symptom
another common one, throat bile.
Balance you must go without,
time to get tingled by the big freak out.