“where it stems from”

Not sure where it stems from
you know
the madness of it all
and the funny thing
to me
the aspect
morsel
morpheme of thought
that makes me laugh
is that I begin so many
streams in that way

“where it stems from”

as if
as though
as the roots of thought
clutch
like a lost child
to the slipping hope of being found
in the sea of strange chords
and suddenly
becoming the acorn
bursting
through the stone above
an oak tree
proud and barking

“where it stems from”

the madness
it must appear like a cloud across
the sun
beginning from some pressure between
gravity and man
and solving itself by becoming smaller
blocking out the source of light
of “yes” and “please” and “of course”
from there
the only thing that dissolves it is time.

I have said this so many times
that slowly and surely it has become
more real, more of a tree in itself,
than a physical oak that I have touched.
this I can’t explain,
I only wish it to make sense
and it never does.

the only thing I know for sure:
These words that I press into existence,
that are padded to you with two thumb prints and a series of ones and zeroes,
these words keep it at bay,
keep me in the bay
out of the ocean

They are smart enough to see that I
do not carry enough to trade for
a life vest.