the prophecy is pink when I open it
A. K. Shakour
some may say the future is Rosé
bottled from the south of France,
but i just care about how the grapes feel
when they hit my heart. truthfully,
i really don’t know what i want out of life
i wish i could uncork the answers to my questions
scream HAPPY NEW YEAR every single morning
because each day has 1440 minutes for my use,
lifetimes exist in the dirt under my fingernails,
how can i just pour this hope into my mouth?
i want it all, the big beautiful house and the babies
that i breast feed with the ease of a soldier.
i crave a wrap-a-around porch, purely for the aesthetic
since it’s the prettiest place to sit during the sunset,
but more than that i want to pack all my belongings
drive across the border to Vancouver, become
a nomad with a pen, scribble until i stop breathing.
i want to spend every last penny i have on plane tickets,
i’d be the main character in the movie, just for a second.
maybe i could be a baker in Europe, kneading bread
in a quaint cobblestone town. i want more experiences than
what will fit within the tight glass neck of a wine bottle.
meanwhile, i do nothing.
i sip the prophecy out of a sunflower mug given to me
as a gift on my birthday. i wish i could be reborn each day,
live in a mutant ninja turtle shell. be invincible,
or perhaps invisible. what is the difference?
the lines are fuzzy, pink panther mysteries,
do i want a diamond or a cat? i could explode.
i don’t want red or white, i want to bleed bubblegum pink
