boredom was the only monster underneath the bed at home
it creeps up so fast if you're not careful
it'll set so thick in the air
a knife can cut through it but it will not get rid of it

the **** was something she knew all along

it's the fabric in the boxes that give it an upper cut
the paint on a percaline figure that blinds its site
the recipes in a box that cut away at it slowly
the tomatoes to pick, to eventually throw at it
the colored pencils; the shank of creativity

the boredom will crawl away and bother another family
it preys on other houses
of the mom's that don't know how to get rid of it
and only flinch when they look the assassin in the eyes

I could live off the evergreen on a weak bet
or a whisper in a library that wasn't for me
I'll take off in the dead of night if it needed to be
without shoes or a backpack if it was necessary

the euphoria of the soil beneath my feet
and the sun feeding me all that I need
a place where the fog will never clear
but is never the symbol of gloom

the trees speak to me in code during the day
and let me know if they do make a sound when they fall
if I stay still long enough I too will be the woodlands
and the woodlands will be me

let the mushrooms grow off my back
and the spiders web between my fingers
petrichor the only fragrance I know
as I spit blossoms on the ground

I'll sit in silence and think of it all
for one thing is certain though:
the biophilia will eat you alive
but the exception is just so

the stars have aligned within my bedroom ceiling
as every potential life of mine passes before dinner time
the luck I have to be so passionate of the paint on my canvas
and the way I flip my eggs in the morning
how to understand Fibonacci's sequence in the way of the art
but also in the way of where I place my keys

do you know what it is to feel so deeply?
about the light that strikes my porcelain heart so perfectly
but also the way my plant leaves shine in the window's glow

do you know what it feels like to have it all?
every single artisans gave me it all in one touch
I'm a wicked traveler of space and time
I would live a million lives if I could
it may be a blessing, but it may be a curse
because choosing one would be the saddest of it all

some say this building had issues with the temperature anyway
but most would agree
this heat was not brought on by the typical Houston air
he walks in to the beat of the trickling chips around him
heads turn for the new, the old already know how it goes down

some get up before he sits
only to make sure their pocket linings stay
the sweat on their forehead tells it all
who has the nerve to face the boy?

an hour in of back and forth
shuffles
murmurs
eyes only on him as he moves
their mouths ajar, he bets all in without a flinch
the atmosphere is flipped within a card
an uproar of "shocked but not surprised" flows through the room

as he leaves with money in one hand, and all the cheers in the other
the room falls silent faster than the door can close
just with one phrase that slips through the crack
"the boy is in rare form tonight"

picking flower from your beard

                      only in my dreams.


                                      daffodils from your eyes

                         intertwined around your glasses.


                                       I make a bouquet

                                            every night.


                                 hoping maybe in your dreams

                      you're picking flowers off me too.


                       clutched in your hands


                    maybe just one.