I dream of clarity.
An uncluttered mind,
without trash can thoughts
tossed on the floor.

Without clothes of memories,

spilling sleeves of old summer days,
ripped jeans of schools return,

spewed in the floor.

I crave the feeling of
pristine handwriting
inscribing perfect letters
onto patterns of speech.

Instead I speak like doctor's handwriting,
occasionally intelligent,
but rarely discernible.

I lay my head on
the tangled bed of lies
I  built,
and dream of clarity
once more.