Can you answer my question by
rearranging the letters thrown in
to spell your beauty of a name,
the one your eyes have spoken of
too frequently to mean much but
happiness is not counted with
scars nor letters so let me ask you,
how many dust particles must I inhale before-
Where am I and who are you, why
am I kept in this room smelling like
raw paint and the echoes, the echoes
of the fans twirling their fingers in mischief?
Who am I and where has my voice run off to?
Did my education cost me my logic neatly filed
and creativity trimmed to make fit in my brain?
Can you question my answer by
rearranging the letters meticulously
calculated, juxtaposed with scrutinizing
glares to mean something-
What day is it today?