There is something to be said,
for speaking your mind, she whispered -*

      There's a home
outside of this home -
inside of this home is a fire
inside of this home is a fountain
This pedestal, is perched, a crow
gawking at me, as I inhale smoke
from charcoal, as my breathing accelerates endlessly -
I can feel the oxygen hitting my lungs
like the sun hits my eyelashes on the first
day of Spring, where blue jays
and wet lawns, and a later setting sunset reach into
my stomach and fill it with flowers
and girls and sand and salt and bikinis -
I just wanted to take the time to say - I
I feel nostalgia in the form of an atomic holocaust -
it happened, and it will happen over
and over and over. Until we can take the time
to say, what we really feel inside.