Being Dust on the Fabrik

by

Heather Prudence Davis

Without my medication
i am floating around
in a fog not having
time or capabilities
to think before i react.
I am a puppet on
a string with no clues
as to who the puppeteer
may be this time.
Who is it and are
"they" aware of the power?
Some crazy connection?
I am seeing things again
before they happen.
They are minor things
that aren't quite adding
up the some of one.
I wish these damp
intuitions of being
pulled by strings
in the collegiate gas mask
riding the horse
but only for a few moments
would evaporate with the
flatulence i just left on
the sofa for you.
The 8 ball is a bitch
who won't give me
a straight fucking answer.
There aren't too many
straight answers.
But i am confident
my karass
and my friends
of many lives ago
will support me
catch me if i fall
and mend my
broken wings.
I am meant to fly.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at evaporated into nothing
by: Amber Michelle Anderson
from: Norfolk, VA, US

To visit all of Heather Prudence Davis's poems, click HERE

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