Drug

Intoxicating

Are the tendrils
Of colours
That are slowly creeping
Into My Mind

Are the sights
That are making
Me shriek with laughter

Are the thoughts
That are making me sigh
With pleasure

No, it’s not madness
My darling, you are wrong.
It’s a drug.
Compelling, and
Almost consuming.

Imagination.

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The Little Things

Isn’t it funny
How we fight
Over and over again
About nothing?
Don’t you see
How empty this is?
Inconsequential little things.
Did you forget to close the door?
Or perhaps put down the toilet seat?
Maybe you left the milk out again?
Don’t you see
How our fights
Are slowly
Turning into battles?
And someday when you lay the table for two
But eat from a plate for one,
Or when you have enough milk for me and you
But only a glass to pour,
Or when your king sized bed
Finally seems too big.
Will you laugh then?
At how we breathed
Consequence into things
Of Inconsequence