I can tell I'm depressed
When I don't take the laundry
Out of the washer,
Where it has been cleansed of its sins
Of passion, or rage, of greasy fast food.
My filthy hands would ruin them.


So I wait for my roommate
To baptize his own spotless hands
With MY damp boxers.
The habitual thuds of my soggy clothes
Against the back of the dryer
Are a nice distraction.

My favorite flannel dances
With her tiny lost sock.
But 45 minutes isn't enough.
I don't want to end their fun,
So I leave them there
And hope that they'll fuse forever.

He tosses the clothes onto my floor,
Scattering them, wrinkling them, freeing them.
Corduroys atop henleys under crew socks and tees.
Folding them would be a waste
Of a catastrophic masterpiece.

Moving with might
Following potential
refracting metaphorical light
Becoming apart
Of what gives people life

Selfless balance
Of give and receive
If the roots are affected
Then so are the leaves

If roots are
Not grounded,
Not watered
Not nurtured

Some leaves unwholesome
Some wilted
Some lonesome

Little do we know
The leaf is wanting to let go
Anticipating renown
To return to the soil
To avoid the turmoil
Of what it is to grow

" If "doesn't feel
Anything is real
Then it may keel

To avoid the hearth
Creep into the earth
Be lead to ascension
Strong In ground
Trunk,
Branches,
Long to astound  
Constant extension

Leaves can regrow
Even when low
Growth can be slow
Growth can be fast
Leaves will come and go
Your roots will last

I told him people were sick and maybe that's why we die

If eyes are the window to the soul,
Yours are fake,
My mistake.