Clean white crescent moons dance across the starry sky of my keyboard
Coffee stains the papers on my desk
The color of your skin
Like rolling dunes,
And howling winds blowing through my empty head—
Rolling through the tomb.
A distant echo recites the song of the modern major general
Except I don’t know the kings of England
And I can’t quote the fights historical
Despite 14 years of internment,
Textbooks chained to my wrists,
Handfuls of Adderall and Vyvanse—
Medical snowballs with “frickin’ laser beams attached to their frickin’ foreheads.”
I’d rather be watching Austin Powers
Than beating my head against the grindstone,
Capsizing the dinghy keeping me afloat.
My cup runneth over—
Austin Morgan
I keep tossing the contents into the bushes
To make room for the next batch of refried information and freeze-dried quotations.
My train of thought has never been on schedule,
Coming to stuttering stops and taking detours into the exotic wilds of my subconscious
I once dreamt I had magic powers,
But I had to do long division in my head to cast simple spells—
Even in my sparse moments of escape
I am trapped
In the forsaken tomb of my hollow head
Echoing thoughts ricocheting off the walls of my skull
Bouncing back and forth until the empty air vibrates with the sound of nothing.
