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i m sick of being bored.
i m sick of knowing all the answers.
i m sick of driving the roads in my sleep.
i m sick of just thinking about the places i could go.
i m sick of thinking about job and classes.
i m sick of feeling like i ll be one of those locked away writers,
that no one will read until i m dead.
i m sick of photographing in boundaries, i wish i could
tell someone my real ideas without them thinking i was too strange,
i m sick of being sick of it all.

i want a big mess. a big smudge of black on my face.
a huge puddle to splash in barefoot and get ringworm.
sometimes i wish for another shade of skin.
sometimes i wish for a river, hut, and small village life.
other days i m thinking about being the person in the
yellow raincoat in a sea of black & navy business suits,
during a lunch break.
and then on the weekends,
find the meadow,
and the hugging tree,
and a bottle of bubbles.