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Without poetry I'd paint the town red with my rage, draw conclusion from the sky on a pitch black canvas, and mix backyard shaded hues to expose the big picture
Illustrations would be all wordy so pictures would literally say a thousand words like a research paper structured without punctuation or space allowing ideas to run on
Without poetry I'd draw semi-automatic alphabet to shoot for the stars and let my concepts plaster the cosmos of big bang theorists
At the end of the day I often sleep on it, as if my heart isn't in it like donors, as if poetry doesn't complete my wholeness, as if I have reached my ceiling and have already been molded
