sometimes, I wake up to see.
boxes and baskets and tupperware heaving
and pleading for my red-beaded wrists
to burst with the blood of restless ideas
and thoughts to finally bring
our headlines, to life.
not that they aren’t newsworthy,
but to dream in print
is to sit and be told
that money, when set
is a damn good cement
for all foundations, security.
so, to fly away.
a kite not held and a bird unclipped
may paint the night with a pointed twist
above the sink where a t-shirt lies
in drenched remorse for dreams dismissed
and cotton wants, unsaid.
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