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.