Writing as fast as time
Gives precedence
To empty rhyme
See
Time is much thicker, singular, sad
Something not to be had
But to be
And every writer tries it
The stream, the
Screaming fit
Scream!
Gone already, as fruitless as
Catching your breath
It proceeds
What as formless as could be?
Or ‘free,’ we must grasp
As catching our breath
We gasp
But there back broke, flee
I never wrote
perfectly