The world spins and spins and spins in returning tirade, berating, pulsing.
I’m out of breath without moving.
I gasp but no breathe takes the place of the tightening of my chest.
Of the immense pressure to move to find something outside of myself, to find focus.
That never comes.
Cheers
ps: Tomato’s 100th Post. Many more good years to come.
Technorati tags: Archtomato , Focus , Bad Poetry
