There’s no meadow I look out on
and think: that there, I want to explore!
But not with my feet, no rather
with a mess of lines ink-spilt on
a clear sea of white paper.
There’s not a time or place I visit in my mind
thinking I need to escape this
reality. No, I simply slip through a hole in thought
and gently grasp a pipe filled with possibilities
that will later start to burn an ache
into my middle finger as time flips the NOS switch
and my mind races to the finish before
the words flop from clumsy fingers to be left
as a legacy of thoughts thought by
There’s no daydream more awake than
the ones in the heaps of notebooks I fill
so they may be advertised in my living room
as time capsules from the mind
of a possible future genius.
But then there is also this:
the small chance that what I’m doing
is utter shit.
(Jana Ferreira, 2015)