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
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?