From where do we gather such illusions
People’s portraits on medieval displays
with icons on the sides and
all around

it makes sick
that we can have drops in the bucket
to which there is no lid;
and it overflows

I cant pay attention
or want to listen
nothing matters
or makes sense

there is no mound of dirt
there are no mountains
we are no trees
growing
and learning

I found I am obtruding
Against the ceiling
Im like bubble wrap
or a balloon
waiting to blow
or to bloom

I wished I could disintegrate
into a bomb of flowers
like the credits
of the pink panthers

and acknowledge
the illusionary trick
and peoples portraits
on medieval displays

so we talk about speculated numbers
and death in the plague
and its all so vague
waiting to die

for all I know
is I have 95 minutes left in my last class
my body is sore
and no one loves me anymore
and so quickly
be kicked

this is no story I can dig

sooner than be crucified stretched
close inside my self