My skin stands prickly,
On end,
As I type so lightly,
Write so brightly,
Sounds as if I’m smiling
As I say words
As I complain
As I hint at an explanation
For the thoughts in my brain
There’s blood
On the words
Dried and old
Hidden
Missed
Because we hear
What we want to
Our brains make things make sense,
Match lip movement with sounds,
Match memories with reality,
Match words others say
With our own thoughts.
So I’m thinking
That I don’t really know anymore
Whether green is green
And whether you say
What you mean
And whether you say
What you say
What I hear,
Although it seems so clear,
Could easily be yellow sunlight,
Not red blood,
So the fact that all I see is blood
Is probably
Completely
In my head.
Malice could be friendly,
And friendly could be cruelty
And every long moment
Could be short.
So what do I know anymore?
Nothing.
Not even the color of the grass
All I have are assumptions
That things are supposed to
Make sense
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