Walking through life,
Dealing with people with up-turned noses,
With their pants too low,
With their attitudes hanging lower than their earrings,
and their riches hanging from their finger tips.
My fingers are lazy,
Flip through book pages,
Text that parent,
At least until I get them home.
My laptop flies open,
And my finger tips wiz across the keyboard,
"I have to write that down,
I can't afford to forget".
Pages later, my thoughts are finally out,
Haphazard and fraying.
I am clear-headed,
The fog that littered my sight,
And the funk I was once stuck in,