Z a g

Slammed my bedroom door last night

for toothpicks and the daisies.

Now I think I’m living, now I think I’m going crazy.

Wouldn’t turn the light on,

for some metaphoric reason.

My friend said I’m alive, but then maybe she was teasing.

Wonder where I’m going,

can this tower take me there?

Is there any point when I am crumbled on the stair?

If being is believing

and our dreams are in our heads

and you don’t care this happened, then clearly I am dead.

Slipped on concrete steps,

almost fell into the blue.

I can’t feel my fingerprints under all this glue.

Drew a Sharpie angel

on the last page of my book –

the teacher might be angry but I kind of hope she looks.

Got another dozen essays,

some algebra, some trig –

instead I’m sitting writing this, dig, gig, zig.