The Day Inside My Head

I need space, tons. And a yard that’s huge

but not with a trim mowed lawn, just a field

where with hammer and nail, I’ll build seventeen rooms.

Painted with greens and oranges and purples and teals

 

will be sharp lines and smooth designs.

Away from normal, probably no time soon

I will radiate there, being me in my mind.

For now, I’ll just shoot at the moon.

 

I’ll have secret passages and floors of checkers

that I’ll take the time by hand to build.

Shelves will line the walls, filled

with books and trinkets and records and

 

on a typewriter in a pine green room, I’ll write

surrounded by stacks of folders and paper towers

while I drink coffee and smoke joints all night,

shutting myself in that room for hours.

 

On Sundays, there will be a sudden stillness.

And I’ll realize I’m living day by day

and that I don’t want to miss this.

I’ll feel okay. Writing down words is like putting things away.

 

I’m feeling like I want to be down.

But there’s time for everything. Look around.

I should wake up, look around and slow down.