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?
its called life, all that junk is called living
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