It’s hard to describe
the way my mind works.
The kitchen sink
of it all.
My thoughts
just seem to crowd up,
piled precariously like plates
from some dinner
that time forgot.
The way they sit
always ready to collapse,
ready to fall and break,
like some delicate glass palace
built upon a faultline
that is always ready to erupt.
My mind is fragile,
I have to keep it active,
keep working it,
to keep it agile.
For if I stop,
it freezes over
and I forget how to function
in this world that won’t let me fall.
The drains all clog up with
leftovers from
takeaway thoughts
I’d once had,
that then vanished
as quick as a shot
leaving just the residue
of stewed memories
to gather up.
The only way to unblock
is to keep pouring my thoughts
from the tap marked hot.
The one constant is that
they will always keep coming,
these stuttered moments,
the dripping,
drumming of the tap that
I can’t quite turn off.
Its rhythmic pound
gives a backbeat to life,
as I drift aimlessly by,
sometimes in a dance,
sometimes in a flood
of tears that I cry.
But the rhythm
is the sound of life
and for that I’m thankful,
but those plates are piled high.
So, I pour in some imagination,
a concoction of hope and love,
just a dash of acidic pain,
and I let it foam into bubbles
of some fairy-like creation.
Then I let that hot water flow
into those suds of soapy memories
and I clean away
the grease and debris
of the worst memories,
scrubbing the dried-on stains
that time has given me,
the moments of hurt that
could have killed me,
and I wipe them clean,
bringing back the gleam
of freshly dreamt dreams.
Thanks for reading
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continue to do this.
Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle
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