I close my eyes. And my mind opens.
Thoughts; they spin.
Round and round. round and round.
Creating waves. Leaving and returning where Start and Finish meet.
They hurt. They kill.
They shred my sanity into smithereens.
They burn gaping holes in my heart.
They leave sorrow in my pocket.
They paint confusion in my mind.
I'd like to think of thoughts like an old fashioned ceiling fan.
They cause lots of movement.
But in reality, make no difference.
Miss Bossy Pants
-
“Go to the party”, the voice urged me.
One of tens or maybe hundreds of voices overlapping in my psyche; this was
my Bossy Pants voice.
Not to be conf...
6 years ago
no difference? really?
ReplyDeleteyeah
ReplyDeleteim gonna change that.
they make lame differences .
uncalled for .
I like this poem. I think the last line is exaggerated, but it does bring the point across.
ReplyDeleteI want to see your changed version.
ReplyDeleteHave fun in Israel!