i drive the long,
and i drive the empty
spaces between the places,
the spaces between the smallest places;
though sometimes i fly,
i fly the blue and sunbright skies,
the skies between the places,
between the largest of places;
left alone with my crazy self
thinking shutupshutupshutupshutup
to the non-stop that blurs my thoughts
running together like an endless train
of painted, purple unanswered questions
of unchallenged observations;

and so

i put on the music of the other insane
and listen to their pain/pleasure craziness
to drown out the familiar nagging
that screams louder and louder
when it sense that i, that i, that i,
that i am alone with it in the spaces,
the spaces between small places,
and the skies between large places;
until it stops trying to force me to listen
and it takes control of my hands
making me write and write and write,
because it cannot stay inside
for fear that the unexposed nerve,
the unlistened to cry,
becomes the closed forever door
of the one walking who had died