what if the pen was the scalpel, ripping our chest open with flowers sprouting out haphazardly
what if we had the sun running through our veins, and night time made us temporarily unconscious
our bodies react as the paper, you let a stranger take a pen to you trusting them not to shred the floral
when one of the magnolias, gardenias, or chrysanthemums are cut, the rest all fall like dominoes
and the sunlight scatters like mice into new hosts as you spiral downward into unconsciousness
the secret of how i flourished through drought was my optimism and faith in others who failed me
the science of how i got through these psychological traumatic experiences were questionable
the seconds i've spent thinking about it have been seconds wasted forgetting about my future
i don't trust the time, i'm always caught observing the clock making sure that it ticks
maybe i don't believe in it's mechanics, it's acute accuracy, or it's clockwise spin
it's the numbers i don't trust, i'm certain of it, we're all made of numbers
we're all seconds, hours, days, months, and years counting down

- kra