my meds are syntactical pills.
i pop them daily.
never fail.
i constantly rearrange them
and stare
at their sound.
how they
slant, or how they
run off
into tangents.
each day i stare at what they say.
eyes wide shuttered, half-here-or-there
or whatever.
they make me feel better, i tell her.
i get off
from it.
hear me! i am creator
of small thoughts
written down.
slipped crown tumble.
wings fallen into
this glyph
which stands for
something greater; or
so they say.
----- crow over there. see it? it careens scenes
of scenes, never-ending slipstreams and forgotten seas;
tangential shadow tree limb swim there: promise is viral gold..
i want to be difficult to read so you can't ever fully know me.
or because i know i'll never know me,
not really;
so why the **** should you get to?
no. it can't be.
i locked and ate the key to me
long long ago.
shine the light just right
and you can see it: it's there,
grown into the spleen.
see it?
it turns me on
and off.
my doses have increased, i say.
i'm addicted, she says.
we all are.
we all are because
to write is to admit
you have so much more to say but don't know how,
and probably never will know how.
but still you do it.
there's always
another
angle
to be
seen.
I'll most likely die
chasing the syntax, i think.