The main reason I never liked English class.
Or wanted to write.
Maybe I was a poet and just didn’t know it.
Or maybe I’m nearly 40 writing like I’m 17.
Does it matter?
I’ve felt like I skipped adulthood anyway.
And just ended up here one day.
Psych treatment can do that to you.
Eternally suspended adolescence.
But maybe the curtains were blue the same reason the sky was blue the same reason my fingernails are blue today. Because they needed to be a goddamn color and it didn’t really matter which and maybe it wasnt important to the story anyway and you’re all missing the fucking point.
A book was written once by someone who felt something.
A sky was built once from nothing, who really knows how.
Today I painted my fingernails.
Laughs and Lobotomies 