I see all

Intuition cuts like a knife
in a boxed reality--
roots hang like limp fingers hoping to feel--
excitement drops dead on account of misused fire arms
around the wrong person
breath catches
oxygen tight
and carbon dioxide
smothers trees' roots--
wither.
Intuition chops like a hatchet
and thence comes
weeping willows and
startled eyes.
A boxed reality spills our illusions
of invisible packages
spills like discarded wrappers--
crushed--
abused--
disregarded--
empty bottles of
God-knows-what
litter
and roll clinking and
crinkling amidst the
stench of
half-empty truths
and smoking stubs
of self-esteem.