A mind is a glorious thing to have.
Mine is a weapon and a tool.
My problem is
I love to think.
I think impossible things, I dream in paradox and theory.
This mind
Can work like a machine,
Gears and motors whirring,
Excitement firing on all pistons,
Ideas flying like sparks,
Inspiration billowing like steam.
But.
If left unused, if not oiled and polished
And constantly working
It turns in on itself
With a sawblade whine
And a merciless drive.
If not always occupied
This mind is a steal trap
Snapping shut on my neck,
Snagging every worry and fear
But letting all the comfort slide right through the grate like
Powdery ash.
Precision and cruelty
Go hand in hand in here
And the other face of awe
Is always chaos.