winter babies cry in the summer time – still thinking
about dying twice, still questioning this one life;
still questing to find still waters – still won’t we be
dying inside; drowning softy?

still silence – I don’t know my place; until I close
my eyes, and can’t see any of my shame. the moon gnaws
off a bit of myself – as putting on a brave face in the day,
is our nature.

we are lost lambs, that bleat themselves into silence.

In front of my eyes is a white ceiling, plain and smooth,
and I can hear my chest pounding.
I can feel my lungs breathing--inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.
Then there are tugging, swinging, running---
back and forth and back and forth.
Where did it come from?
I have no clue.
White ceiling, is it all you?

You would not believe
how strong my fingernails
have gotten, I can gouge walls,
tear through flesh,
and flick incredible distances
all while laughing

Smart people
    there are too many
    not all achieved their goals-
    they lacked curiosity -

    how they did bask
   in their past each victory
   resting too long on their laurel
   they faded away in complacency