i'm taking notes
on how to manage
my creativity.
write against the backdrops
of what limits me.
so I'll trade in
my baby crayons
for a mechanical pencil...
sketch out my cries
through a passion stencil.
outlined enough
to confine tangent sighs...
I will ritually douse the fire in my eyes
to systematically cry
flow charts of lies...
a shadow of what was mine.
and I will melt into retreat
as intermittent puddles form at my feet...
I'm moving to another's beat.
stuck between prayer sheets
looking for layered heat --
stacking my wishes
against the dirt...
eating off hospital dishes...
licking tile
for a spec of worth...
I'm mopping your floor
with a bucket of my tears --
Will you track mud?