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WithoutwordsPoems
If I could crack me open And see inside my mind I really truly wonder What on earth i'd find. Aside from all the blood and guts There must be something more Perhaps a spark of magic Or at least a secret door. I passage way to dreamland A train down memory lane A nice comfy padded room For the bits that went insane. Since I really know me I'm certain there would be A stable block of unicorns That only eat ice cream. And in the darkest corner There's probably a door Shutting of a little room Where all my tears are stored. And around the whole thing A great big wall stands tall To give me strength of mind When I am feeling small. I'm entirely certain That there's more than blood and guts Perhaps there's lots of little people In lots of little huts. Maybe they keep me tidy And when they go on strike I get all bamboozled And fall right of my bike. Perhaps they paint the pictures Of all the things I think A hundred tiny artists With sequins, paints and inks. And my imagination must be down to them How else could dream such dreams And forget them all again. Spend a passing moment Thinking on your mind, The possibilities are endless To what might lie inside.
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Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
The crazy ramblings of a right royal nut job
If I could crack me open And see inside my mind I really truly wonder What on earth i'd find. Aside from all the blood and guts There must be something more Perhaps a spark of magic Or at least a secret door. I passage way to dreamland A train down memory lane A nice comfy padded room For the bits that went insane. Since I really know me I'm certain there would be A stable block of unicorns That only eat ice cream. And in the darkest corner There's probably a door Shutting of a little room Where all my tears are stored. And around the whole thing A great big wall stands tall To give me strength of mind When I am feeling small. I'm entirely certain That there's more than blood and guts Perhaps there's lots of little people In lots of little huts. Maybe they keep me tidy And when they go on strike I get all bamboozled And fall right of my bike. Perhaps they paint the pictures Of all the things I think A hundred tiny artists With sequins, paints and inks. And my imagination must be down to them How else could dream such dreams And forget them all again. Spend a passing moment Thinking on your mind, The possibilities are endless To what might lie inside.
Withoutwords
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Withoutwords
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
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