Problem Chylde: Live from Pressure Cooker, USA

To this day, I can’t imagine
waking up, coughing up
similes and metonymies,
metaphors wrinkled around me,
my chemise drenched in
onomatopoeias and
shivering off synonyms as
I reach for my pen.

Some writers wake from slumber
blanketed in flames, formicating
with syllabic beats needing the
cool smooth stiffness of rough white sheets,
transferring dreams weaved in one bed
to another; I lost that affliction
when I was nine and reality drenched me
with yellowed journalism and a
hollowed sensation about
technicolor dreamworlds.

To this day, I can’t imagine
using the notebooks I buy
to cease the senseless itch
on my arm
in my mind
near my heart –
to this day, I can’t imagine
penning a white wooden raft
to drowning synecdoches,
hoping two touch its boards
and the body joins with it.