One day, I will build
a home made of cardboard,
a small enclosure
set on the vacant lot
located at the corner of
Fate Street.
Pedestrians will pass me by
as they gawk at my home,
a spacious two square foot mansion.
It might be slightly drafty
in the winter,
or perhaps need a fan
in the summer,
but no one can deny
if I will be happy –
perhaps a cardboard box
is all I need.

My mind is never empty

Like those days with clouds moving in different directions
a foggy landscape,
zombie weather, my brother claims,
but with particles zooming in all directions
or so my unfinished chemistry homework says.

Calendars filled with graphite lettering
stacked upon piles of papers,
discarded months swept into heaps
of forgotten leaves, neglected notes.
Ink bleeding in sporadic shapes,
lines of fatigue that never begin or end.

Faint melodies
trickle through the crisp
autumn leaves, vibrantly yellow against
dark, damp bark,
distantly elegant, distantly cheerful.

Winter winds whistling,
sharp and painful,
hurt, most definitely
torn arguments and shredded papers
and tears and grief and hope and defeat and anger and frustration.

And suddenly,
nothing.

I’m just trying to get some sleep.