It's always here,
In the loud, long nothings.
Always in the cramped quarters
With my legs woven,
All stiff and wound up like some morose marionette.
I guess that's where the words grow.
I like to imagine cars are horses
Running free, wind spirits of the open plains
Not machines.
I like to imagine I'm some great poet,
Inky pleasures flowing from mind to parchment.
Not just me.
I'm always imagining.
Especially here.
Imagining myself,
Imagining people notice me.
I don't much care how.
I imagine because it's harmless
And mine alone to taste and to have.
And I don't wish my imaginings were real.
For I cannot own experiences,
Only fantasies.
It's always here that I find myself tangled tight,
Sewn and enshrouded in words and thoughts and imaginings.
Maybe it's the dark or the late or the loud or the long
Or the routine
Or the nothing,
But it's always here that I find myself somewhere else.
Always here that I tie it all together, somehow.
