Be my muse,
I'll translate you into binary
and back again.
Lying on the ground,
blue carpet between your ears,
synthesized sounds convey through spaghetti,
hearing aides grow old with us.
Child sized vowels fall off their bicycles,
from between your lips.
Keep me busy; when I'm comfortable, I get lazy.
Your shirts are overlaid grids,
the holes, coordinates.
17.43
Always a poet, only occasionally writing,
I hedge my bets and roll die
with insults open to interpretation.
I don't like your words,
I don't need your hyena smiles
I don't want your degrading remarks.
But I know your skeleton,
your tendons, cartilage and marrow filler.
I understand how you move,
the coconut oiling your joints.
Be a textbook reference,
help me cut apart the paperchain people I’ve made,
I want to portray them realistically.
Shade their features with scrawled adjectives,
resolving to care about typography.
White school glue takes too long to dry
to have hopes of staving off entropy.
Scribble highways into dusty prairies,
be the cartographer that misplaces my world.

I hope one day all of the darkness will fade
You’ll take off your mask in his masquerade
Flowers will bloom on the inside -
From your rib cage to the back of your spine
Your empty eyes pouring out pain
Will dance in the moonlight once again
Maybe tomorrow you’ll dust off your brain
Even in the depths in which you claim you’re insane

Your voice shakes, your knees knock
Like the chiming bells on a hickory clock
The nightmare you endure day by day;
A never-ending infection, a lagging plague
Phantoms cover you like your grandmother’s quilt
Tire you so all you can do is wilt
The paperchain dwindling by the windowsill
Is tattered, frail, and utterly shrill

I hope one day all this madness will stop
Until then all I can do is watch.