What a novel idea to look into my eyes,
What a novel idea to walk circles in disguise,
What’s a mirror filled with fog, when there’s water to clear it?
What’s a nose filled with breath that is needed to steer it?
How’s the trace on my fingers going to hit you with hate?
What’s the shame in a chewed word?
Lips say, “Participate”
What’s the ice of a comment without the liquid of a knight?
Why is language so complicated, cut with a silent knife?
What’s the empty space behind a forehead have to do with choice?
What’s the outline of a future have to do with voice?
Could the digits on my fingers be surrounding the clouds?
Could the outlook on my pastimes be concerning to those found?
Is the smoke from the fire invading your space?
Is the light from the sun exposing your true face?
How is the moon always rising, controlling the clock?
How are seconds always running without thoughts on lock?
Where’s the hat filled with possible names?
Where’s the life in a child who just sought a group of frame?
Is the independence on your tongue licking up my goodbyes?
Are the lashes on your sight correcting unjust eyes?
Do the palms on your hand tend to map out a certain fate?
Do I always come up for air in a blank, splattered state?
Should I stand for a mouth that gets fed broiled words?
Should I sit and just wait for my own slice of the world?
Because the blinker on your shoulder is growing ever closer,
And the femur on my knee is the newfound composer,
And the glory you painted and stapled to my face,
Is stepping towards the balcony and reaching out to play,
And the phrases from my head have grown little legs,
Surrounded by corruption crawling from underneath your bed.
And the path of the natives are reserved for certain feet,
And the wrath of one fruit is all I have to eat,
And the diamond on your backbone is glowing in the shade,
And I stand here and whisper your insanity to be made,
As the wind carries your cries, from deep within my tomb,
Could dawn be worth a simple try, while my metal fingers cut up doom?
Do you see the solid conquerors crumbling to powder?
Or is it only my mind that has discovered and tackled matter?
Who is the creator of a speech I attempt to speak?
Who is the demonstrator of a river I cannot seek?
Does time matter, as I construct these thoughts deep within your head?
Is it simple logic to cooperate with those once deemed dead?
Are you frightened at the thinkers that can think within this room?
Are you intimidated by the possibilities you embraced by chasing day out of Mother Nature’s womb?
Is it embarrassing to mold letters from the ink of my hand?
Is it wrong to walk on afternoon’s ground without sculpting a plan?
Are questions multiplying, as you long to be modest?
Are letters filled with Novembers meant to make the villain be honest?
Is the end a mentionable substance, clear to all who dream?
Is the final day a simple handshake, as the youth grips winter’s scream?
Could the membrane of your smile be all I have to see?
Is the thought process in my mind all I need, to ‘be’?
Can we say we are truly living the life placed in our hand?
There are words in my head. Therefore, I am.