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.