Untitled, is a poem written by a badass militant revolutionary felon. He wrote this while incarcerated.
i dream of bright blue skies like bright blue eyes,
dabbed with weightless cottonpuff sketchpads for the imagination,
of rolling green mattresses that make you
itch all over when you lie on them just so you know
they weren’t made for you.
it’s important to know none of it
was made for you
or cosmic dreams of
black construction paper flecked with countless glittering points,
shimmering blue and white and red so faintly
that you probably aren’t seeing them properly.
but if you stare deeply into the blackness,
all the way to the end of it,
don’t worry because
as that overwhelming sense of smallness washes over you,
insignificance envelopes you in its inescapable embrace.
let your breath escape
with a heaviness that
carries the weight of your burdens
because if you don’t matter,
none of it matters,
everything will be okay.
no matter what.
those dreams bear the fruit of Christmas-morning happiness.
dreams of undulating light gently lapping at wet toes,
held in earnest conversation with the wind in the trees.
it’s very good conversation because the wind never shouts.
it just murmurs its points quietly and moves on.
soon enough, dawn-crack morning light
will burn up these gossamer dreams.
i’ll be able to wake up to her bright blue eyes,
the bright blue skies, and philosophizing trees,
with these flat grey walls
fading away instead.