Autopilot
I don’t want to be in my body.
The parts I don’t love I wish I could disembody.
This disease cannot be fought off by an antibody.
Im macaroni. I’m mesh. I’m an old soul full of dead flesh.
I’m in limbo. I’m stuck. I have baggage as full of a dump truck.
I’m searching for a rainbow to find good luck.
I’m a robot. I’m on autopilot.
I’m running low on mileage and the sound of my engine is quiet.
I’m a parasite. I’m a host. There are Jesus freaks inflicting me with the Holy Ghost.
I’m unwatered dryland. I’m an island. I’m an alarm system without warning sirens.
I’m a wannabe nomad. I’m not the baby bust generation like my Dad.
I’m a self-proclaimed woman with a pen and a notepad.
Take me out of this world. I’m a twenty-something with a lust for life beyond the latest fad.
Instagram famous — the cure to my daily hiatus.
Being online disrupts my saneness. It taught our youth without recognition they are nameless.
On this green sofa, it is midnight in Fort Worth.
I am a child within an adult to unearth.
If God is for real, awake me for my rebirth.
