Blogger doesn't accept my fucking formatting.

You are born old and you read and die heavy.

but on a brighter note, this
Monday-morning doodle resembles (slightly)
a dragon,

if it were a bat,

dressing blindly as a shrimp and

my cursive is hopping fences
falling flat on its curly face.

There’s a breeze that reads my poetry

perches and breathes down on my neck

right above this seat—
or maybe it only happens 3
days a week.
Insanity is doing the same thing

saying the dome theme

dumbing the numb scene

(over and overt send red rover over)
while expecting different results.

Why the hell do I always sit here?