If the alphabet wants to dance in the moonlight,
who am I to
stop them?
They tend to stumble home
from a late night at the
Print Shop,
heavily inƚoxiɔɒƚɘb
and throw magazines
at my head.
They yell things
that I could never
spell
because they're all too drunk
to be written,
an I follow suit with my
rebuttal.
Finally the altercation
turns physical,
as I grab them
by the serifs
and press then
one by one
onto a white sheet,
locking them up
behind the bars
of blue.
(writing has been really frustrating the past few days)
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