truth

There is little to distinguish
blinks from winks
I try, I do
because across the room
little things can mean
sweeter secrets than text can testify.
It’s beauteous not knowing everything
or anything, really,
so why the heap of pretending
not to mention, furtive mending
of popped seams and deflated dreams
ringing ears and silent screams?
Last time I checked the whine
of rubber bones creaking through days
bending to the will of my worries,
scurrying in crevices of this mental maze,
I sat for months and prayed
to imagination, a fictitious fabrication
that tore my feet from the dirt
in liberating solicitation.
I spend seconds in creation
cosmos behind my eyelids,
worlds of honey smoke and little kids
where there’s more green than gray,
my jeans are frayed, and I can stick my toes in the sand every day.
Hills are for rolling down, laughing,
heads are for scratching,
beds weren’t meant to be made,
and socks are for mixing and matching.
Expect nothing!
Put your hands in the dirt and grow something:
May it be green, teal, aquamarine…
or lay on your back and scream
and when you’re spent, lie silent and remember:
it’s all just a dream.