I am sedated by male nudity.
There is nothing in my head,
except badly sewn theories
as to how magic works.

As if that matters.

The empty walls are shouting:
"Do something!" But I'm not
ready yet. I whisper: "This is
none of your business, anymore."

The future I want consists of
mushrooms growing underneath
my bed. Thoughts of bees and
the flowers they love and need
tracing algorithms into my sense
of purpose. Equations to show
me where to go, and what to do.

I set this intent:

My spirit will be organized
into something clean and bright.
I will use this clarity,
to bring forth and manifest
the beautiful forms and skills
resting under layers of

dirty snow.