They say imagination is a good thing,
So let it grow,
And I agree, it’s a place to hide, to be mine,
To be me and let myself be free.
I can grow tired of what’s in front of me,
What’s in my ears and in the air,
It’s much more fun to run away,
To unknown places far away inside my mind,
To find what else is lurking there.
Who needs logic in such a place,
Where links are made in colours and shapes,
Not lines that bind they melt away
And new ideas blossom forth to stay
For just a second.
I’ve always been a fan of irony,
But even I work hard to find the joke
In being tucked up in bed,
With lights switched off,
But noise inside my head.
Once a month perhaps I find
Myself beseeching my tired mind
To rest, to be silent, to be quiet and still,
But still it whispers behind my eyes,
Through day and night.
I dare not think of how much power
I must use musing my catacombs,
Combing my mind, but standing up?
No, the motivation isn’t there for that small task at hand.
So “Dear, my Mind” for the last time,
before I go on mental strike,
Lift me from my bed to write,
Or let me fucking sleep tonight.
keywords: poem, writing and rambling