dark chocolate Raisinets

Everything is the color, shape, size, and feeling that it is. Nothing is the nonexistent something that it might be. What if grass was purple instead of green or the sun shown rays as dark as the night? But it would still be day and everyone could see through those dark rays. There would still be night and day and nothing would be peculiar because that is what we will know. If the meaning of cat was mouse and mouse was dog and dog was cat, what would we wonder? Not much, those would be the words of what we know.

If words looked like the colors they represent, would we ever wonder?
Yellow would be spelled like this: =======. Like a sun ray. Blue would be spelled like this: {{{{{{{. Like the top of an ocean with waves. Red would be spelled like this: []. Simple, like the shape of a fire hydrant. And green would be spelled like this: (#). Like a leaf in the fall.

Simon is my valentine

A Mathematical Genius

Rehearse a logarithm.

Learn to be a mathematician.

Tacit clumsy talents.

Inquire: Square root of,

One million.

Cling to the absolute, the obsolete.

Deduce lousy derivatives.

Reply: One trillion.

Create an algorithm.

Ehhh.... Psychology

Stuck In a Paper 

All I know is black and white. I was drawn by a painter for a stranger on the streets of downtown, a sudden scribble for a random passerby. The corners of my mouth are permanently placed like the creases in a book that someone forgot to read. I cannot frown for I am forever smiling and never expressing other emotions I feel. My arms and legs are straws that bend accordingly, but in misleading manners. The stranger folded my world, my view of the universe, and only remembered their own.

Is blue soft, but sticky like cotton candy?

Is yellow extremely hot like the summer or exceedingly sour like a lemon?

All I know is white and black. I run from corner to corner, bumping into the outside world. I was not drawn for a museum or art display. If I was redrawn on another piece of paper or on a beautiful canvas, would I look for my original place? If I flew on a cloud and jumped on an advertisement I would see drivers and passengers heading to their own piece of paper. That place which they call home. I am where I have always been, in a crease in the bench that the stranger ate lunch on and forgot the scribble from the painter, this piece of paper.

Does green bend like grass or brown flow like sand through the fingers of a hand?

Does orange feel round like the fruit of the same name?

All I know is black and white and white and black. If one cannot miss what they do not know, then why do I yearn to be in the world outside of this piece of paper? It hurts to be stuck in a paper.

I have internet now, and again

February

I thought about yesterday.

And remembered tomorrow.

I forgot one hour ago.

It is today, another day?