There is a box. Brown box. I keep this box under my bed. It is home to my pictures. It is home to my past,present, and future. It strores my zoo of animals and mythical heroes. Both living and dead gods are stored there. There are even pieces of the broken. I hope they don’t miss what ive taken. This is all in my box. All underneath my bed tucked safely in the corner. I’ve kept shades of light dull and prismatic in my box, but they escaped, which is fair for my box only holds so much. There are heartbroken hawks and falcons in my box. There are demons fighting black-hearted angels every waking moment in my box. There are fallen stars on dark barkdrops. Glasses of water half-full are in my box. There are canoes, highways, and ethnic cornerstones in my box. Dirt from under my nails from past lives is in my box. All in my box. All tucked safely away under my worn bed. The bed where I’ve bled and fed. Between these four walls that want to talk but cannont because they are blind and have no mouths. Misused, unlike my box. My box with little feather hinges. The box that is made with pieces of me and a key lost inside.
- in homage love and respect to allen ginsberg
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