i used to be a poet but what does that even mean anymore?
in a world where everything is poetry and the universe created just for you,
where everything is cause and effect and every object has a purpose,
like the snuggie worn only after consuming 3 grams of mushrooms and the box next to the bed holding up a coffee-stained mug that hasn’t quite made it to the sink,
when the galaxy inside you is on the brink of explosion what words could even be said?
when it’s clear that words are just words and the only honest thing is feeling and yet no one to feel with.
what do you even do with feelings?
i mean, when all the feelings there are to feel have been felt and they linger unwelcome in your galaxy just floating, no gravity and certainly no final destination,
if colors could be felt what is pink?
what does pink feel like?
my galaxy is vast and i could choose to travel anywhere within it yet i always come back to this one twisted place called Now.
what is that about?
I don’t trust Now.
I don’t trust Now because it always leaves.
Now always leaves.
i used to be a poet but what does that even mean anymore?
In My Heads 