10,000

I have wings, tattered rags on a stick.
You have a SkyScooter (TM).
Let’s run through endless tulip fields with no flowers.
Let’s reach the end and take flight.
Butterfly, let me be.
Let’s spin under this blue aviary.
Let’s swim in swirls, unfettered by the laws of physics.
Swim in an endless pool of sunlight.
Let’s run across the keys of a piano.
Let’s breathe underwater.
Let’s mask up and fight crime.
Let me violate my mechanical heart.
Let me disturb your inertia.
We stand upon the new kingdom.
Yet I wish I were buried underneath it.
Squished so that I were reborn
Where I could properly celebrate my emotions.
I am more awake than a dormant yesterday.
And that took 10,000 of them.

Out Sick

Are higher, more elevated forms of happiness only to those who revel in physical agility and health? Or can you find it even in sickness? Is it an illusion that I see rainbows under my eyelids, that I feel accomplishment even in making make my palms touch each other, that I hear the samba echoing off the walls on my room, that the unrolling of my backbone feels like the unrolling of the miseries of a lifetime, there is only the desire to watch the sky and the highrises from a windows as open as my heart, imagining the stars align in mysterious ways, watching people fly by on bagels and watch a half-finished native american dolphin jump off my easel into a world made of the very same bold strokes.

If it's all just the medication, should I even be taking it?