Mattering matters more then being mature
On the 4 walls that surround my bed I see places that work in congruence.
One painting is of a Sunday, and a bustle high full of red. Made from tiny dots so close together that they make a memory.
Two pictures are reminders of my failures, but tell me to be better
One photo is of a Man I know. I didn’t chose to have His picture hung up on my wall, but I’m grateful it is.
Ideally I prefer iconography in my room to idolize my intentions
All the art on these walls grow me up because……… oh wait, there’s one more.
He keeps moving
When he’s here it’s an unmoving stare at the end of my bed.
Peeking out now
I saw him at school, when I put my head on the desk his eyes poked out from the bottom of it.
He moves into my head now and then, he tells me I’ll be here forever.
Maybe I was afraid at first, but this was the kind of thing that was around so often and so brilliantly that I think I found more comfort in his art more then the paintings in my room.
Mingo’s saloon 
when people loose their sense of smell they say they can still feel
the smell, they can’t smell burning toast but they know that something is burning. that how this poem makes me feel. im not sure i have the capability to actually sense what’s happening but i can tell something is happening and it’s very powerful. *snaps*
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