Sometimes when I wake up,

I need to scythe swaths 

through fields of phantoms

so I can make it to my closet.

I untangle my web of dispirited limbs,

limp like leftover spaghetti. 

And yet, as I bore holes

into the mirror in front of me,

I remember that just yesterday, 

I woke up exhaling exuberance. 

The spot of sunlight on the carpet

was enough to saturate my soul

in throbbing tides of desire. 

Shock will never spare me;

the world simply moves too fast. 

Confusion will never leave me either.

I can’t grasp galaxies

when I don’t even understand 

the vacillation of my own mind. 

Language is simply a beautiful masquerade,

a blooming medium of exploration,

for all the things

that keep me scratching my head.

A thousand sentences more,

and my own heart will still be a mystery.