The boys which fill
my trafficated mind,
trouble my mind.

And troubled minds
trouble bodies.

Leaving mental imprints
of what may have been.

The boys which fill
the streets make me wonder
about the yellow house
by the sea
and the undiscovered secrets,
which hide in the past
of undiscovered directions.

The boys which never
held my hand,
but did anyway,
hang on the walls of every room,
in the building of
professional thinkers.

Oh what may have been
or what could be.
The immortal human sound
of a mind turning in its sleep.