Spaces, Which Hate
June.18.2oo8

I don’t know who I am.
The world is constantly so new…
As if I’ve always just firstly seen-
It’s a feeling I really hate.

Labels lace in an out of clouds and rocks and
silly precious things that have no meaning and beneath
this cold lamplight--that allows me to see--sitting.
I call everything for what it is-what I’m taught;
those words even dare to be fitting and beautiful to me at times-
that is how my mind warps reality, efficiently.

I know all these objects already, don’t I?
Why are they all so out of place
when it’s I who placed them?
When they’re mine.