Imagination isn’t a number.

On the portico in the rain

Here, each drop feels the same

And I’m the one to blame

 

Count them: one, two, three, four, blame

 

I get so stuck on the shelf

But you can’t read a placid blue

I can’t decide what to choose

 

Count the other books, too

 

This is the day I’d rue

As I took the time to breathe

When all of me would seethe

 

Into the feverish breeze

Through my brazen skin

andallatonceiwasthereinthemomentjustasiwasallofme

 

Maybe here is where I’m meant to be

Mayhaps this is all I’m meant to see

But this part of me

Grits his sharp teeth

against the

arithmancy

and this does not breed

creativity

pure numbers only

useful for counting

too bad these lines stray

from the rhyming scheme

this might not be

in actuality

 

me…

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