I’m convinced that someone’s hacked into my head
and deleted the part of my brain that controls my concentration.
Because at times, I have the attention span of the goldfish who just downed a bottle of vicodin.

See, my brain is a livewire lined with high-voltage power lines of dreams and ideas,
and I can’t shut off all the switches and relays flooding messages to my nervous system,
because what I have is a nervous system.

Every caustic, worried thought that I’ve ever thought tends to show up there,
and all I ever do is worry about how one wrong word might end a relationship,
or how one right word could start a new friendship,
or how everything that I keep reading into,
is just bleeding into everything else,
mixing colors,
while I’m sitting here…

forgetting to take the time to paint with my passions and prides.