And what if it is rotating?
It isn’t.
And what if it is operating?
It isn’t.
And what if it’s right?
It isn’t.
And what if it’s bright?
It isn’t.
And what if it’s wrong?
It isn’t.
And what if it’s winning?
It isn’t.
And what if it’s losing?
It isn’t.
And what if it’s better?
It isn’t.
And what if it’s worse?
It isn’t.
And what if it is the wrong thing?
It isn’t.
Then what the fuck is it?
It is not.
Category: Poetry
Airport
A landfill
A Mindful
A solitary carpool,
I drive on edges of quartz,
I hear our solitary march,
To destinations uncovered
To futures falsely discovered,
But halt.
What do I see behind my malt?
In a spastic little quirk
She makes a plastic looking smirk
O, lover momentary,
Our awkwardness we shyly marry.
My Parenthesis 