In God Years

Downswing days and passion fruit. Juicy ideas with broken wings. Slurpy mouth corners and liquid players playing watered-down blood. You imagine it’s blood because that’s all you imagine. The thought of reaching for a napkin to wipe your chin paralyzes your arm but the thoughts of mangled limbs and shattered teeth and screams come easier than your ability to speak in the shape of a heart. What in dog’s dishonest name is wrong with you. Is self-diagnosis a catapult, a sling-shot or a flying trapeze? How far can you go, how far have you come, how much does it count? This growth is a torture machine designed to compartmentalize your mental eyes into god years. And yet the ultimate question remains: Would the words still appear with medication? Tick tock, tick tock, these days your smiles drown out the clock. Being is a catch-twenty-something-year-old but without this there is no that. Remember that when this is this and forget this when this is that and when this is that that’s all that matters.