Tourette's Life, In Their Lane Poem by James McLain

You find it, am musse-ing, I can tell.
Verb, verb, verb, do you like action to?
Blurting out stuff
that makes even the president blush, my
mind is secretly
lost in mound of nouns, squeal, sequel, squeal, fell in the fire
ash on my face
to discard as it will, help me, help me.
No mercy I hear for the week.
The doctor says we blurt out the psycotic fears of anyone when they are near, living breathing empathic erotic sceptic mirrors of the others darkest fears.
Dali I have eaten their sins, now save me.