Sticking Around for the Next Act
Watch how I attempt
to balance inflated eggs
upon my last spoon. See how
I feign functionality from the
smudged and dripping edges
of a migraine. An aura. Prelude
to a cataclysmic mind event.
The walls crawl with mixed dosages.
Fresh air can be a cure-all
but it’s oh so hard to find. Within
the greyest spaces of this fog
pulses a neon electric blue. A beacon,
long-buried. A firefly flashing, teasing hope.
Something so beautiful
taking cover under
pressure point clouds.
It’s there. It’s still there.
Temporal lobe interlude.
A fingerprint left behind
by a Maker who
believed enough in my
societally flawed design.
Watch me practice with these
frayed strings. Nerve twanged fingertips.
An attempt at a life song of sorts.
A recorded history. A hint of my riddles,
my mystery. Mappings of
light and dark memories.
Lines on hands.
Lesions on brains.
My yolk soul
spilled all over the floor
from losing motor control.
Dancing neuralgia.
Using a crooked finger
to shakily capture everything
to mold into solid word form.
Thistle Thoughts 