Scribbles and mess-ups and an ink covered page,
My brain is the station and my train of thought never stays.

Cluelessness and confusion are the things that choose to fill,
My mind of no rhyme in a head of no will.

So I chase down that train,
The one leaving my brain,
That fast locomotive that's driving me insane.

I find myself aboard a vacated car,
No thought,
just knowing not,
Where you actually are.

Place down the pen, close the book and lay back,
You might be on the train, but you're not on the track.

Head back to the station where you will wait for another,
Hoping then the train that comes will ride as smooth as butter.