know nothing justwrite

No slacking in slacks or pants made of my dreamthoughts, somewhere to hide the secrets I spell on my lips with finger letters, mailed over several days to somewhere just down the street. I patch my walls with magic dust, but really it's just pepper, sooo sixteen-year-old boy with a cheesy mustache, a gypsy's tent that sits on a hill looking quiet, not like soft songs or the cracking of eggshells but like nothing, so quiet it's a silence not even an empty house can contain. I know because I've been there, something invisible as my breath fills the rooms, stressing the windows so the glass bends, breaks to stop people from holding each other in boxes, looking for answers that have no connections to the question. I shape your culture with my edges before ducking out of your sight, casting my net into the sky to catch some fish for the moon because she loves how they swim the fluid freedom, not holding the sacred liquid in cups, as if I am a fish and the sacred liquid is a metaphor for the knowledge I wrapped for your birthday, set it on your doorstep and knocked before running down the stairs and across the sidewalk like a raindrop trying to gather as much light as possible before spilling over its own boundaries. I am wet, and that's all I know, but then I evaporate and realize I know nothing, just one idea at one moment that I keep in a locket but can't hang on my neck because it's always too heavy. As the colors grow over my ears and I peel them off to give back to the world, you pick up the slack in my spirit and tell me it's all right if I'm not sure.