Every day I fall out of bed,
gather my bones,
and try to imagine what it would be like
to disconnect my head from my body
and watch it float lazily
up through the green & blue mess,
like some discarded balloon.
Everyone will tell you to stay grounded,
you know,
but I’ve had my feet stuck in the mud
as the years trickle by,
like a faucet mostly shut.
I just keep growing roots:
gnarled tree standing idly by,
branches waving in the wind,
at my dumb balloon head,
drifting through the scenery,
ambitious and directionless.