I’m sorry that I talk so fast,
But, when I try to slow,
My good intention doesn’t last,
And off I bloody go
As if I’m speaking at a run;
I stumble over words,
Which zing like bullets from a gun
And scare off flocks of birds.
Yet what I have to say’s so mete
I ought to take my time
And pause a while and miss a beat
Or even speak in mime.
It must be hard on those who hear
My talking from a place of fear.
Photo by Volodymyr Hryshchenko on Unsplash
Fast-Talking
