often times i have wondered,
where is my passion?
perhaps, i misplaced it all in my stomach.
surely that's it.
so in the morning i'll do a steady crawl to the toilet
and after a few deep, earthy groans,
i'll throw up rose petals the color of your tongue
the color will cause the thorns to come as well
and finally i'll know what it's like to suffer for my art.
and because it comes up,
it must come down
so i'll stand outside in a cigarette ash stained storm and let it come down
my passion
all over me
i'll write about the journey each drop took
the way it worked through the cacophony of wind and blaring white electricity
just to land upon my freckled cheek.
maybe when i'm done i'll crumple up the paper real good and give it to a puddle.
because in this life, one must learn to never hold on to things.
but one will. one always does.