I may not be an exquisite writer, or a genuine poet. When feelings smack me in the face, I\'ll describe better than show it. This is one of those days when my tank runs empty, but still burning on fumes. No need for a bandaid when sweat releases salt into the wound. Sophistication comes in a voice of goofiness, as if making the joke. I\'m not going to squirm like the Pillsbury Doughboy does when receiving a poke. I understand antisocial when there\'s an image in need to protect. Sounds like society has most by the reproductive glands, with a leash around the neck. Matter of opinion, fact, what\'s real inside of the depth of how fake. My beliefs are strong in the points I\'m trying to make. Difficult it is to stand up, when threatened to be knocked down from underneath. Every day news of something going wrong, and how much more the world tends to bleed. Random thoughts are the chaos factor in what produces stress. The problem will always be there, if nobody is willing to clean up a mess. Some ask where my spirituality is, as I say with God and beyond. He gave me another chance after an overdose within death, strange as dream phenomenon.