My brain is a bowl of spaghetti
I can be turned with a greedy hand
And a rusty fork
Eating my thoughts
From an unwashed container

Please stop eating.

I don’t think I can afford
To lose another fork-full
    another strand of memory
Let alone
Be mixed up
With the other ingredients
Poured into my skull

It seems I’m getting sloppy.

Refills are impossible
Because the more I try to stuff inside
The more the contents overflow
And the threads of words
Come spilling out
When I beg them not to

Well.

I hate contradicting myself
But without anyone eating
And without room for refills
The nutrients inside
Will begin to rot
And disintegrate
Into nothing but molded mulch
So everything I try to retain
Will be useless
    and inedible

The filth accumulates.

Insanity will be the smell of my mind
It will control my every action
A single whiff
Strong enough
To lower the IQ of a genius

I’m losing myself.

I’d try to explain it
In understandable terms
But it seems the correct words
Were lost
    when I was bitten into
And scattered
    when I overflowed

This is what I tried to describe before:

My head is a box of noodles
I can be dented with a pinky finger
And a dull knife
Tasting my dreams
From a…
        Hm.
    Sorry.
What were we talking about?