Comatose

I lay there blank drawing pictures with nothing more than a mind, a color scheme another theme that I learned about in english calling it language arts when there is no difference between love and a memory— what you see in me, and I’m still deciding whether to begin to be free or to sabotage something sacrilege, and begin to believe in suffrage. Calling it dark just because your eyes are closed and calling in the smoke that escaped from your mouth and nose, and I’m still deciding whether to begin to be free or to play hide and seek with too many anaerobic activities, learning how to breath because I forgot last time, when I was in my hospital bed, drawing out my thoughts comatosely. Calling it biology, the pathology of a look or a glance, the way you stand—your stance; the reasons you believe in things like language and art and the reasons I was still deciding whether or not I would start being right, trying to decide the differences between cars and hearts trying to compose a real statement that would stand up in court, a reason for equality; but all I felt was comatose. Calling them Capillaries, irreverent exhaustion escaping from a mouth or a nose, words flowing though you until they hit your toes, they believe in righteousness the difference between poetry and prose the way I feel about that and how I felt about those, recognizing a life that was as frail as bones and discovering something else nobody knows; the findings of time, the scriptures of fate, the explanations of dreams, sleep, and comatose. Beginning to have respiratory problems because of this room nothing more than a day of doom, another cliché and someone who misbehaves first grader claims and taking the blame; like world war one and Germany, another small reparation and a conversation between you and I spoken solely through blank eyes and taking lonely away from games like solitaire truth or dare? Child’s games, the way we played the way that I could never be the same and the way that I’ll never forget your name, the romance of another dance—another trance I was put into, finding out that I loved nothing more than comatose and solitude. Spoken word, nouns, adjectives, and verbs birds are birds and for a while, you were all I ever heard.