Floating a poem by bater
No resistence, light or chairs.
Not much in here plenty or hair.
Rotating, flipping feeding on Mom.
Trying to understand why I'm wrinkled in my palm.
Wait for it...floating!
(a light clicking sound from the mass of crowds finger applauding)
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That was my experience I had last night when I read some poetry at the local hangout named: the Tummy. All the mitochondria had DNA of their own and were clicking. The white blood cells had to protect me from the t-cells as they were pressing. Looks like I have some fans!
- Bater
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