I keep a box under my bed
that's filled with thoughts all from my head.
It's small and square and nothing new,
just dreams of things I'd like to do.

It's filled with notes
and little scribbles,
just things I wrote
all mindless dribble.

One day I'll die and leave behind
the box of thoughts all from my mind.

And the fish they all continue swimming
even though the water is all now gone.
And fisherman faithfully keep fishing
despite the fact that everything is wrong.
And somehow the plants they keep on growing
although the sun has not been out to shine.
The farmers continue their harvesting
as if they think everything is just fine.
All the wolves they never cease their howling,
but the moon out of sight, is new tonight.
The hunters sleep, waiting to go prowling
unaware of things not being right
The world flips us upside down and around
and sanity is nowhere to be found.

Sneaking through
the cracks of insecurity

it plants itself,
like a seed
in your mind.
It is a ****

sprouting
from your fears,
all of your uncertainties
throughout the years.

It roots itself
inside your mentality
and preys on thoughts
that distort your reality.

It courses its way
through your nerves
like thorny vines
crippling your reserves.

It flourishes
at the first signs of defeat
and suffocating you
like the summer heat.  

And like any ****
it will grow and spread,
with its vines entangled
inside your head,

twisting a labyrinth
of complicated confusion
that leads to apprehension
and misguided conclusions.

They warned me
it was a death trap.
They told me
it would be my demise.
  
That Little *******.
That beautiful,
yet powerful,
sleek, silver Spyder.

It was so ****.
The rev of the engine.
The way it purred
as we sped along. 
 
If only we were more
than just a glare along the highway.
The sun bouncing brilliantly
off the hood.
 
We would have won
so many races.
We were so fast. 
Cruising down 466.

We would have been great,
the two of us:
‘The Little *******
and James Dean.’