As I fall asleep, they begin to converge ,
Like water at the edge of the broken till,
Like blood clots when your knee hurts ,
The thoughts form cloud bubbles in my head ,
Colliding , like an awful lot of plates clanging,
I watch them all , creating a chaotic mess ,
And I absorb the rush of it.
They’re all falling down in my head ,
They want me to pick them all , see through them all , act upon it .
They’re like grapes , sweet and sour ,
Only I’m not hungry for them now , yet I collect them ,
So when I want to pen them down tomorrow,
They’ll be lost in my abyss of memories with nobody richer ,
So I catch them before they run on a hiatus ,
Before this mind of mine paints a gloomy picture.
The Writer's Archive 