all poetry does is create an aesthetic with words
all I can do is sit inside my room while lightning flakes
across the sky with fireflies and dragons of rain, gallons and gallons
drifting down in not-quite-a-race over my lukewarm roof
white faces sit together in black chairs while black faces dot the walls
I am warm now, when I used to be cold- but I don't know
if I can feel anymore, I'm rubbing my toes but they're numb
I don't know if anything is broken. Is anything broken?