#WritcoPoemPrompt37
In the quietest part of the night,
When you hover between dark and light,
Wondering if you can float away on dreams,
Hoping they won't turn into screams...

I muse, "this ain't so bad. Shit."

Hell...last night I was lost in the woods and gettin torn to shreds by brambles.

At least there's no crazy countryfolk perpin betwixt the creepy trunks
Waitin for punks
Those woods were private.
I was the punk in question

They shoot first.
God help us.
I was a monk
Well...I lived like a monk.
And I stunk

I punched in...

He's on the clock.
He's cocking his glock.

Or wait that's a knock off.

Or maybe not.

It could be a fractal dispensing inflicter with a laser site. From the year 2234.

The laser site is from 1999.

Wow. Gone into space time in a fit of delirium. Warped. Ripped. Made a few drop offs.

Picked one up.

What a tool.

Shhhh.

I'm talking and I'm reckoning. I'm racking my brains. I'm wrecking em.

Put em back on the rack. You break it you fry it.

Monotonous spools of spew are fluidly flowing through me. From deep space. Dejected hyperbole directed at ghouls.

And you.

I'm a Mormon....