How freeing it must feel to be spatchcocked.
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If you care what others think, even a little (is it possible to care only a little?), then you will
become a sixteen year old girl writing poems in her notes app at eight P.M. This is supported, of
course, by a because.
there is no escape.
it’s as simple as that.
and it won’t
stop the poems
but will change them.
I am prehistoric thoughts.
I am a bard from wizards.
I am familiar of Plato-cave.
Yet you forget what you
Truly are: the very breath of God.
And so you blunder through this
Dream-speckled life like an
Orphaned child hungering for home.
Yes, I am your chosen; my gangling bones,
my sensuous lips, my frightened eyes.
You play in my sandbox, but serenely
store your vision of sugar plums.