Woozy

I. Unsteady

I think I’m feeling woozy trying to slow the momentum of traditional shadows cast upon me,

most days I feel out of touch with reality, early to a party on the other side,

I have to start fist fights with shadows to know I’m alive,

and not some grotesque corpse still stuck in her past life, haunting every inch of a fluffy corridor with gems the color of dried blood, I feel woozy,

like I adopted a seventh sense to feel the entire weight of the universe descending on each of my vertebrae, every injustice to mankind sits upon my spine,

they are boulders carrying me into this wavy Atlantic, where the warm sea salt blinds my vision, cuts into my retinas, turns the blood in my eyes to acid rain,

the fish turn to hopeless humans clung to sharp hooks gasping for air,

a fin proudly waves their bodies around like a dictator holds his flag,

I think I’m feeling woozy.

Superficial spill of a spirit, some avant-garde charity case, some gradient of innocence gradually leaking into the scandalous lips of a broken man,

evading the expectation to tie the knot because knots have been tying themselves for years, in her stomach, around an oak tree.

How much more love will it take to drive out this hatred that we’ve harvested, how much more light, Dr.King?

Amorphous shadows cast themselves on the cold, wet walls of this tunnel. How long is this tunnel Harriet? Is there a light at the end like they’ve all promised? Have we figured out the real length of a dream? It seems we can only turn fever dreams into a reality. Our visions are slathered in sickness and I think I’m feeling woozy.

II. Dizzy

My Gods have made me the trustee of this temple, but I’m not too sure I’ve taken the care of it they need me to.

Call me a student, a novice, a pupil, every minute I’m etching into my bones with a nail and hammer trying to rebuild, trying to remaster their glorious work and I have yet to figure out why.

I wonder if the minute knows it’s made up of seconds, the hour knows it’s made up of minutes, humans know we’re just made up of time? And that here is no reworking, no remastering, there is only a mountain of hours to climb - tenderly.

How many carry their admission to death like a plane ticket? Ready to be carried away by the wind and ascend into the cotton ball clouds.

How many of these people are afraid of their own creation? Afraid to admit they are the clouds, the plane, the ascension?

III. Dazed

Which atmosphere can I manufacture to turn my sketch into something real?

Which merchant can I pay to turn my reality into a sketch? And who must I speak with, to learn to differentiate between the two?

Is this my psyche’s show and tell? Bring up all the flashy symptoms, splay them out on a bird’s nest, push one off the edge and hope it flies but it just ends up crashing, I just end up crashing, and who are we showing this to anyway?

Because I know we’re not telling a soul.

I think my emotions rally in the forest of my lungs, clinging to every branch they can find because when I try to exhale I only end up holding my breath, and they just end up clinging on tighter

I’m a pedestrian in the sea of cars, my thought, no laws bound them to stop so they crash, collide, burst in the walls of my skull. Which atmosphere can I manufacture to turn this sketch into reality?

Which atmosphere can I manufacture to turn my sketch into something real? Which merchant can I pay to turn my reality into a sketch? And who must I speak with, to learn to differentiate between the two?

Is this my psyche’s show and tell? Bring up all the flashy symptoms, splay them out on a bird’s nest, push one off the edge, hope it flies but it just ends up crashing, I just end up crashing, and who are we showing this to anyway? Because I know we’re not telling a soul.

I think my emotions rally in the forest of my lungs, clinging to every branch they can find because when I try to exhale I only end up holding my breath, and they just end up clinging on tighter

I’m a pedestrian in the sea of cars, my thoughts, no laws bound them to stop so they crash, collide, burst in the walls of my skull. Which atmosphere can I manufacture to turn this sketch into reality?

III.