We're mostly made of things that you
can't see without a microscope, and
observing the, chemicals and bending bones that, I suppose,
make up what we are.
odd endings, lines, and a periscope.
conquering skylines and then leaving home.
I look a little like I might,
have stayed up all day and then all night,
and instead of sleep, I screamed,
to the morning came back up to the day.
abstract realism (my sensibility),
good morning daytime, good morning me.
i'm, not everything I say (or mean)
i focus in on what they, could have said, when
maybe I, or he, or her: was listening
or maybe unaware.
you're breaking bones and leaving home:
coughing up words that you never spoke.
what is it now I wonder, say,
the things we're of, what things we're made, that
can't be seen under a careful gaze:
viewing beneath a silver telescope.
abridging rhymes and fairytales
contemplating things that I never tell, I'm
attending to means, tangible dreams,
so far i, guess, that I am doing well.
The river breaks a solid tune
bones shake in me, also in you.
bones, being the very first thing you're made of.
being the only thing that you are of.
since you can't see, do you believe
the things we are, the things of "we.” a
contemptible, imagery, of what's inside
the things we feel
the things we hide.