the progression of thoughts
and sound
fertilize the sentiment,
which sprouts
into a thought.
the thought
grows thicker
and thicker
until
there is no more room
to spread.
and then come
the words,
breaking windows
and shedding blood,
until
the silence
harvests the space
needed
for another seed.
a difference of interpretation
never read the owner’s manual
to
our own lives.
as a matter of fact,
we probably burned it,
sometime
between birth
and highschool,
but
in our defense
we probably just wanted to
study
the effects of fire.
so instead
we learned everything
on our own,
and rewrote
that owner’s manual
with nothing but our guts.
and if you ask just about anyone
they will tell you
that your guts
are just no substitute
for
standard black ink.
and then
you might nod
just to pretend that you’re paying attention.
but really
you’re just thinking in terms
of
the carcinogen content
of standard black ink.
you sit there
contained
by nothing
but a legion of
streetlights,
peeking
in your apartment.
the stillness
is warm enough
to wear.
but
you think
of people.
these people,
working the stitch
better than any
seamstress.
and
here you are
abrasive
to needles,
afraid
of thread.
it’s a discipline
of staying
intact,
just a belief.
