I wanted to trust, but I have been dishonest and now I take the good and turn it bad. My friend is compassionate, checks in regularly, makes sure I am well in spirit. Perhaps that is what breeds love, but I have already destroyed love in our past. I hoped I could be larger than I am so that I would be worthy of feelings they send, but to this day I guard secrets, and tell truths disguised in jokes that are shrugged off in innocent beliefs of my stability.
Your mouth feeds me butterflies in droves of lies
Dozens spun into and down my throat to catch
Between the middle of my vocal chords
Until all I can do is choke
On colorful moths.
I am ready to rest because today I did what I set out to do. Don’t bother asking what that was, all you need to know is how to do you, boo. Today I woke up an each hair was in a perfect place on my head. My cheeks were rosy, my eyes healthy, and my determination beastly. They keep asking questions like, “Who are you and what sort of monster fancies your poison?” I respond that I make minty cocktails that will freshen you to the core going against the laws of nature and the structure of our planet. They say we have molten rock on this big piece of rock we doze on and we take advantage of it by baking it like the adobo houses you find close to the desert. Ultimately I won’t desert myself and I’ll write you a little love letter pleading for you to… It’ll all get better. I’ll make it better. I lost my train of thought in this stream-of-consciousness scenario that makes little sense, but ditto, it’s all good. My throat burned out a tune and created abstract musical notes asking to be touched because the sound waves are emitted after abstract “matter” came up with the idea to shoot electrical bullets within my skull and man could you hear the canary sing? In how many colors do these little birds come because I can form the rainbow with the portrayals of life that I step into every day. Listen closely to the sounds of my fingers tapping my cellphone to make these words appear on some fake paper-emulator we like to call notepad. In reality nothing’s all that bad, but I’ll complain and when I take a breath I’ll reminisce about the scrawling of pencils keeping track of ideas that flow through axons in an infinite number of combinations. We’re all mathematicians inside our heads. I need to pause this chicken-scrawl for the soul because I’m so tired and need to make more of this Hellen that seems to be propagating the succulent leaves of my life. One moment it works and the next it dies, but something’s bound to come alive. They all make me feel alive.