my head is clouded in fogs of nonsensical air. so i'm writing instead of doing my schoolwork.
...which i may or may not regret by tomorrow. i've reached the point of not caring so much, ya know?




when the feathers of your eyelids shut
and your mouth is running out

of words to play,
make sure there are eleven
pillows on your bed in november
and the doors are tightly shut with

paintings and tattered woven tapestries
wound and sprinkled in dilapidated dust from

memory’s attic
clutching the smell of year 1901
with chipped red polish,

unkempt on your lukewarm fingernails
complemented by tips the colors of rotten milk
and leftover fragments of yesterday still

wedged underneath.