I used to think there was something I dunno, attractive about disorganization— a scattered mind, having too many thoughts to say at once, unable to focus on just one thing because their attention is caught by so many things they consider interesting or insightful—I found it quirky, intriguing; a mystery to be explored, a mind in need of dissecting But it’s really more of a burden than anything endearing, because it’s frustrating to never feel like your words are correct or your own, like you ripped them from a book or only spit them for this poem it’s disheartening to never be taken seriously because of how frantically you lose track of your subject and yourself It’s shameful to be invaded because of this quirk, but only for a short time because the baggage is too heavy and everybody’s hands are too full