When in the woods, look up to the sky.
And let the strain on the eye get you high.

Let the breeze of our dying mother squeal
And let the sun burn back your skin
Till you peel, and you grin like there’s nothing wrong
with this situation.

The paper planet is coming for you, on up to the space station.
Get your Bics ready, fountain pens, and sharpies
Color your world, with the dreams of a beautiful girl
And watch as the sky begins to glow green
Like the illuminated time piece on your wrist,
And watch as the ocean waves blow back and melt
Us like, we want to be kissed, how

Human it is to be missed, when we are gone.
We graduate.
We mistake the fast lane
We hit the ground running like an airplane
We lose ourselves in the riot gear.
We forget why we are even here.

The paper planet that I live on,
Is full of storms and rough seas
Lightning lights the loose leaf streets,
And we spread sheets, over each forgotten soldier
Each soldier,
Who armed with a pen, draws justice.
And the winter is colder as cold as you can imagine
And the typewriter streets, will keep you relaxed,
As the writers, artists, and magic makers type to the beat,
Of a distant drum,
And the music is beautiful, and the only highstrung are
Maybe the violin or the cellist.

The paper planet gravitates, and develops
And shrinks back to 246 words,
Or deletes down to one.
But keeps on till one day it will be scorched by the sun.
But by then I will be all done, trying to be someone.
And I will put the pen down, and cough up some more rhymes,

What rhymes with dying, I believe it is the saying “rhymes all the time”
Slows down to rhymes once awhile, to rhymes barely ever,
To I don’t pick up the pen,
That my friend is when hell freezes over,

And the demons of distance, clash with the saints of persistence,
And we fight on our paper planet, till there’s more ink then oil.
And we listen to the sound of the drum departing,

And we wind up adjuncts in the English department.


Jason Wright is the founder and Editor of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.