There are times when I do not feel like writing.
When I realize how these phrases and paragraphs
are giving everyone a preview of my hidden subconscious and unconscious.
That the halfheartedly wired, spillage of a wreckage
like an uncluttered mess in the wake of a hurricane that I am,
is giving free tickets to an exhibition which has always been shut down,
front door barb-wired with inhibitions.
Then the hidden me peeks in through the keyhole,
looks around and sighs in relief,
that my inhibitions are shallower exhibitionist
than the visible self of the crowd.
ABSINRAW 
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