Sap

There is a gnawing desire to tell you all that goes on in the many folds of my small brain,

of the grey and black static that is interrupted by images of color, woven with words and memories,
of the impulses that present as alpha and beta to the more mundane,
of ideas that remain muted, but never erased,
of the visuals i paint in a myriad of colors, but could never put in words,
of the void and brimfulness that my thoughts seem to be constantly vacillating between,
of the voices that doubt and whispers that encourage,
of why the first falling flower of autumn has me all depressed and happy,
of chaos and no-chaos, determined simply by the presence and absence of people,
of my anger and frustration, and inability to counter either,
of words that lend themselves into sentences, but never make it to the tongue, held and strangulated in shy vocal cords,

of...


(now, if only your phone was not always engaged)