I write backwards
in search of beginnings
because now can’t decide when.
For every bird chirp
there’s an empty nest,
and stars hate to dress
for dinner when
wishes
stain their best glitter.
There is too much boring
in narrow minds that
walk black lines because
dreaming requires new crayons.
Welcome to my random,
my unpredictable, my disconnect
to connect to a butterfly
while water boils.
Madness sits on the tip of my pencil.
She hates lists, using ink for temporary,
and my obscure aversion to seeing
someone lick the palm of their hand.
