Fishing lines of broken lies, tea cups in the sand
Scattered dreams, so surreal it seems, a lifetime written in shorthand
A scrawl of scribbled lines from another time
Borrowed lines from an ancient play are they
Signs of mental decay?
Who put all this junk in my head?
Line of palm and crook flailing of forgotten times
Blasted pipes and sewage lines
Each day is a struggle to know what we are
Our transient follies, our loves, our despairs
Do you ever get the feeling that nobody cares?
Springtime cleaning; attic space for the defunct…
But still my head collects all of this junk.
Laughter, shaming, crying; to care is to show you love
Your brother folds his arms and looks the other way while
Your sister runs for the hills and returns with a babe
And even before you get the chance to talk
You have to wade through all this junk…
Can I ever be free of the junk in my head?