They say "I'm not sure,"
and they know it's veritable.
Cluttered desk--hats and
textbooks and papers and
earbuds all askew, heart
pumping too quick
Sitting on a black plastic chair,
legs curled up underneath, eyes
flickering to The Latehomecomer,
stomach unsettled
"I'm not sure." of what?
head down, eyes searching,
mind spinning, lungs catered
like coffee at noon
"Everything."
Supplied lies, shaking hands
pouring chamomile tea into a
white cup, hoping for--
that too.
"Everything?" on their mind
is falsified and unknown,
twisted skin ruddy,
shoes all in a row,
nails bitten like marionette
"Anything." of confirmation
belongs to the stables
which blossom with the
stench of sweetness and
wild, roving insecurity
"I'm not sure," they
murmur, "what you mean."
Precipices are lonely business
and so are "People like me,"
Forks are steel but the
mind is molten
and rusted in decay
"dream of quiet," they laud
slick on thin ice of
the essay due tomorrow in
history on the death
of too many
Sunglasses are similar
to winter waters and
lightning spirals in;
they are in debt to
themselves, in depth of
"broken moments." that
clash and too much
to think
slivers down in silver
carcasses of thoughts
"Okay, I can't help you."
"I know," filters out
behind lips of burning iron
"I never expected you too."
floats down the crowded
unfinished
street.
They're not sure of
everything and
I'm not sure of
me.
I know it's true.