A dog howls like a wolf.

The brute force of a street sign grinds him to the size of a tin foil can.

I feel the weight of a ten tone truck wedged between my fingers as I pinch my excess fat.

I cough up an excess lung, which splatters all over the floor as it makes failed attempts at leap frogging its way through the kitchen.

Dirt is spreading like a disease, exzma is on all the surfaces.

Every word i write is paved with the animosity that ‘I’ might be the subject.

I remain alert, like a low flying radar.

So many voices, I feel like the worlds outside on the street.

The voices float away as if contained in a bubble a cheeky child blew from the corner of his eye.

The clock strikes again on its big metal plate.

Branded by nationality I feel the old stereotypes creeping back.

The collectivism pouring out, like hot steam from a volcanic lava.


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