Falling asleep on my floor

The movie continues

Rewinding is not an option, nor is pausing. You can’t press stop if you want to see the ending

The colors are twisting

A technicolor experience, viewed from right there inside your own skull. Grab your barf bag and carry on

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The guilt is looming

You will never escape the 80-year hallmark aisle unless you hop the shelves. But then, everyone around you has to pick up the cards. Keep walking

The pen dangles

An entire lifetime pretending to be the author. When the book closes you haven’t written a page – you’ve barely read a few words. So drop the book and start another

 

Sometimes

you wonder who’s watching all these feelings

trillions of eyes glued and scrap-booked

sometimes you wonder if you’re the cup

or the spinning water, or the tea leaves.

you want to grab suffering by its weary shoulders, by its bus transfer, by its untied boots, by its exit wound, by its cinder-block cell. you want to grab the bloodied lovers, the shattered families, the eons of regret, and to tell them they are ok. sometimes you wonder if you could ever be that creative. you heard once that a dry-erase marker can erase a permanent marker. it should be impossible. but sharpie can be undone under one little condition: you have to draw over it first. sometimes you wonder if the world is the sharpie and if you’re supposed to be the dry erase marker and then you feel bad about yourself.

sometimes you wonder who’s spinning that dust in the air

floating freckling waiting to settle

sometimes you wonder if you’re the dust

or the air, or the nap.

 

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