Chai Fonacier

Black bible of poetry sits beside me at 4:33, and if i put it upon my head, would they sink into the braincells that have gone dead for the past three weeks? My hand itches, and my soul wishes to speak but of what? of ranting, again, about insignificant events in the life of an extra ordinary person. i wish i could put the two words together. maybe if i were extra ordinary i could become extraordinary? my mind is as black as the cover on the book. where do i go off to after i have that 300-peso sablay on my shoulders? i let the world eat me, is that it? is this it? where've all the big balloons that would fly me off to wonderland gone to? i used to conjure them up in my dreams when i was five. apparently, they've been burst by rain needles and i will forever be stuck in a "mindrage".