Wordplay; or This Language is Not the Native Tongue

i type the letter   d   on the page and

daisy's start to sprout up like ink leaking out

from devilish roots.

plants bleed in red

and fill up the circle that dots the eye

to imagine their own grown sunshine.

what happens if the alphabet doesn't come with orders?

is it raining letters?

everytime I rip something up

something more whole

devours it.

so what did the reaper

reap?

a bridge made of metal spokes unleashes at my feet

and expands to the

 meet you

in the middle.

so what?

i'm only a can for the paint

i'm only the barrel stock and loaded

for the numbers

i'm only here because you can feel the air stopping

when it crashes into my back.

and you can see the shadows

when the light smothers my face.

otherwise

i'd say i'm more parantheses

with or without apathy.

so what i've got a heart that's burning?

medical anomaly?

i'd like them to paint sketches of me

inside books about anatomy.                                                                    

the pages would rip apart                                                 

and sprout

an ocean

at the place where they start

to explain.

you should shut the book and call it

the moon.