If they split open my mind
I'd wonder what they'd see
Do they see the blue?
The sadness, the hopelessness, the stress?
Would they see the red?
The passion, the anger, the excess?
What about the yellow?
The excitement, the remembrance, the deceit?
Or how about the green?
The jealousy, the confusion, the defeat?
Would they find the bell jars full of stems? // Would they find half filled notebooks of undone poems?
Here are other things they'd find if they tried hard enough:
coffee stained suspicion, ash trays of determination, hole-ridden satchels full of receipts.
I wonder if they'd be performing an autopsy on the conversations I've had lives ago and would the blades be split by my sharp edges?
Or would my ghost reappear to claim territory that was never really mine?
I measured my self worth by the ounces and hoped that my sad eyes wouldn't give the secret recipe away.