I close my eyes and create pictures made out of marbles and copper leaves because I ******* want to.
I don't want to become a liberation of mind control just to feed the habit of your addiction.
I don't care that you love poetry, or how much you hate the texture of my cheekbones,
or how much you want my words to taste like laundry detergent,
poisoning the cerebellum to become cerebral to the fear of your words,
I just choose to be able.

I want my words to keep me floated on Yoshi's clouds
while he's feeding me apples and mushrooms.
If my words were able to shape shift, they would embody the physical being of an old wise man
with knowledge that could fill the top of my laundry basket.
His creaking rocking char moving right to left like the turning of a page,
his hands slowly crumbling into ashes of marijuana leaves.
I want to grow old and die while bumping to Pete Rock & De La Soul on my death bed,
and not care about who's listening to my dying breaths about that mirror on my wall.
It's all the same.
We just want to be able.