Words.

The crazy dog is barking.
I don't know if his mad. Or just like talking.
His sound is penetrating my brain.
Til i no longer know. If it is me who's insain.
I don't like the things that I glued in my head.
I rather roll over. Leave it for the dead.
And these words I can never say.
They are stuck like wallpaper. Or tacky papier-mâché.
I come to conclusion: I prefer not to speak.
You may think that I'm wicked. I think I am weak.

(K)