I wish I could chalk

Broken little white dusty fumbling bristling sounding stick

draw me a picture, maybe a song, maybe just a stroke, a stroke,

I wish for anything preferably a saint with a rose with

eyes closed face lowered after following the aroma of the chalky pollinated rose

I wish I could be empty and full. 

The board awaits your exchange of that feathery texture and in weight

dust confused for school notes, math notation a nomination for those inspirational strokes. 

You’d give up everything to be spread into something meaningful,

transited from the head charging up electrical notes to transverse through the nervously controlled system

stimulating a thought-up motor roll of the muscles collapsing into the hand

with repercussions of a few tired words lexical pressure losing your form

you happily adjourn the word-smith to conform as eyes,

heads, and hands contour to follow your particularly beautiful presence on that white-board.

Oh, how bored, a board without bold presses to absorb the world of hypotheticals and aboriginal drills

disciplining the mind to draw from the eyes, to the heads.

Who made you chalk and what can I do to feel the exact same way as you?

I feel troubled when the auto-musicality of others try to deter my own inference of the

world that I’m in because they think I’m not worth listening too.

Maybe Its why chalk, you do what you do,

its the levels of capitalization you give to formally present unprompted bumf projecting onto eyes of-heads,

but how.. promoted were you when you took that job.

I feel something bursting about you.

Do you really have such a beautiful relationship with the plane of your spreader existence on that black bed,

unequal to a comfy bed where unmet thoughts meet?

I feel something that nothing hurts you.

DO YOU NOT TREASURE YOUR OWN IDEAS? I

hate to ask but did you grow up with any, or were you the god in the dreamers hand?