(set to "pacific" by billy bahama)

the words poke holes
in a plastic bag of water
with a gold fish
the goldfish is my emotions
my stuck emotions to be exact

write enough words
poke enough holes
and eventually the goldfish flows out
into the aquarium you've been slowly adding to

where you've given meaning to something
as miniscule as a pebble
and how it can be as beautiful as a flower
or the stripes on the wall
from the early sunrise
stenciled by the blinds

every morning,
it's the same sun
the same time
and the same blinds

but it feels different
every time
a photoreel of the mind
and a dark room to logic your way out of them
only to realize
you weren't supposed to use any logic along the way
you were just supposed to feel
and stop to think
about how to respond
and about which way you want to go
your decision is the fuckin gps