The plant that birthed plant that birthed me,
the mother on the moon,
would allow me my godwill and serenity.
I’m glad I waste my time.
I use it all being the elephant to blue,
still reaching for that mother on the moon.
I’m hiding in a puddle of one too many spilled milks.
I’m barely there right now,
but the future is all mirrors.
I’m counting my time, waiting for the mother on the moon.
This all gets old when you only have so many motions.
When time held combustion, my skull vesseled gunpowder.
But now, I’m rejected in a blood stream.
I’m really milking that mother on the moon.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.