Trippy

There is an entire population of free living strands covering the surface of my head
They whip and snap and curl and fly away like I wish I could do
January 7th I abruptly left the plains of routine and the taste of the open air hasnt left my tongue
Wild air has not yet left my hair, and I covet the freedom of open roads ever more
The hands of the clock ran its fingers through my brunette feathers ;
Kept me sort of level so I would not catch flight
Kept me somewhat responsible so I could not fail my lovers
Kept me slightly sane for societies sake.

Nonetheless, I plucked the sun from its resting place
Squeezed the colors from it and let them trickle down my arm like concentrated river beds
I smeared my stained hands across the canvas in the sky
Then I lit a match; the colors caught aflame and I cried saying its name... beautiful.
Hot magenta soared downward, punching holes in the purpleish blue undertones
The source of life is not one shade of yellow, but many shades of the creative mind
After the ashes fell just beyond the earths face, I drove farther west into spontaneity.

I left some behind, holding question marks in their hands like torches and pitchforks
I cannot give them the answers they want, why I left that Wednesday so abruptly, so senselessly
What I know is there is adventure that lies awake inside me, waiting...
I cannot tame it, I cannot suppress it
But when it whispers my name I find myself answering, again and again.