good morning america
i see you’ve stopped trying to go to sleep
on time
stopped trying to dream before
the walls and the winged and wicked things
wake
up
and the poltergeist in your basement
starts
walking
and pounding on the windowpanes
his fingers are invisible
and his outline is more real
than your own borders
which are painted on my skin in
the inky black of nights spent awake
in train cars that rumble like the end
of the world
i am black piano keys
bound by black electrical tape
which prevents me from spreading black fingers
to five star your wife across the face
which i would never do
in the first place
America
and it’s not because i think shes pretty
and now you won’t look at me
you're blind with ambition.
somewhere behind the pulpit
i heard you say
the sun always rises in the morning
and colours everything with light
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