You know it's just Mischief,
whispering his own feather
tipped voice through your lips,
setting you inside a bushel of roses
testing your thought process
and waiting for you to get pricked?
You know that right- Hey, kid!
Hop down from that fence
We can't have you acting like this
Don't you know want to know the feeling of home?

Yes, I'll go.
I'll know.

Maybe soon but not now.*


In my imagination of perpetual rhythm,
They administer poems intravenously
We are a part of our own systems, shouting
I've no need for your Thorazine!
In my imagination of perpetual rhythm
She needs three ccs of words unfinished
And yet hopeful remedies, more like prisons,
Leave my hands from the rebellion
With no choice but to idle.