My mind dances and swirls the jive and the jitterbug skirting around a myriad of colourful thoughts and shapes and places that may or may not exist.
It lurches as if somewhere my rebel self has pulled the emergency break and comes to a screeching halt leaving me vacant and vague beyond the reach of this world.

My mind has within it realms filled with volcanoes, raging waters and cliff edges lined with gorse bushes and burns me, scalds me, swallows me up periodically or else some dark shadow of who I am pushes me over the edge and I fall into a kind of abyss.

My mind is alive and buzzing and builds ladders from words once spoken by kind mouths. My mind can call my name and ****** me back to life and whisper hope into my heart as it builds a ladder from nothingness and leads me from death.

My mind is beyond comprehension and yet simultaneously can be almost transparent and articulates itself to me with passion and such clarity.

My mind is more magical than Houdini, darker than living inside a top hat, more robust than the largest of diamonds, weaker than egg shell, contains more colours than a rainbow, its intricate, it has the ability to distort like fun house mirrors, it devours knowledge like chocolate cake, it can be sloth-like or ant-like in its focus and diligence in extremes, it’s Narnia and Wonderland and fallen fairy tales blended, poisoned and polished.

As a baby, my mind – sponge, soaked everything up and yet refused to be wrung out.
As a five-year-old my mind put Picasso and Carroll and Barrie to shame and built up worlds in which I could live, created threads and wove them into reality and forced prisms into my eyes so when the sun shone I saw everything in magnificent vibrant glorious spectrums of colour.

As a ten-year-old my mind built a court house - old style - judge, jury and executioner. It planted olive groves and slipped olive branches out through my mouth - they tasted like Brussel-sprouts - they made me gag but had to be endured as I passed them and myself between those around me, grasping my ideals that the world could be changed, hanging on for grim death.

As a teenager my mind opened wide, it came to life like a popup book, scenes remembered unfolding as if a gust of wind blew ferociously through it and yet my mind also closed the book, closed itself, locked the doors, bolted the windows and drew black velvet curtains until there was nothing but numb blankness. It made me grow wings, colourful and exotic and taught me to fly and I did fly higher and higher until the air grow too thin and my wings would wilt, feathers shedding as I would plummet, colours fading to greys and blacks and I would be scorched by red hot lava, fight for my life in violent seas and be thrown into the gorse bushes staring over the cliff edge into the abyss. Sometimes my mind pushed me over the edge, other times I balanced like a circus freak and other times I dared myself to fall and did. And then my mind would haunt me, punish me, berate me before gentle breathing into me - bringing me back to life.

And now, at twenty-five I find myself not wanting to run from my mind, not wanting to close it down or sedate it with medication. Instead, I watch it fascinated, horrified, feeling somewhat the ****** with the same morbid urges that makes one slow down and look at a car crash by the road. I am exhausted by it. I am frightened by it. I am intrigued by it. For the first time in my life I am letting my mind play out despite not knowing steps to that waltz I am trying to dance.

Sometimes I do not know what to write,
What to think or even,
How to feel.
So I let my subconscious take lead,
and my fingers obey
Like a loyal dog with fleas
I feel I have to write
As desperate as the dog needs to itch
But sometimes the dog will itch so much it leaves a wound,
And the wound is still itchy
Soon before the dog knows, it's infected
Now it's on its way to the vet
Where the vet gives it cream and a cone around it's neck.
Unfortunately for the dog and unbeknownst to the master
The itch cream doesn't work.
Now, the dog is stuck with an itch and no way to scratch it.
But at least the dog doesn't have fleas anymore

Trust is fickle
I can bare my darkest secrets and my deepest emotions to strangers
Yet, letting the both coexist in the minds of the same people feels too risky
Why is it so hard to be completely vulnerable with any single person
I piece my hopes and fears, desires and needs out, sometimes recklessly, in hopes of finding something meaningful
Though rarely to the same people
I'd find it laughable, if I wasn't so afraid of being punished, in one way or another, for being fully authentic
I share one thing with a satirical depiction of masculinity, the mask of normalcy.
Yet its veneer is wearing thin and its facade is cracking and repairing it takes more and more effort only to see new fractures and new peeling paint
Do I wear the mask because I despise who lies beneath?

Teach me mother how to say NO..
To raise my voice and swim across the oceans.
To value safety over politeness.
To feel comfortable in my own skin without seeking any validation from the outside world.
Teach me mother to hit back, when I'm mistreated, when my feelings are not validated and disrespected.
Teach me mother to know what I want.
To be brave, stand tall and bold.
Teach me mother to believe in my dreams, to dream of a better world.
Because when you're gone, I'll carry the legacy, that doesn't have to be out of pain and suffering.
Mother, teach me to be my own hero so that I won't tread the path taken by you again.

Okay, let me begin for the sake of clouding the din, with smoke of my own demise, dispersing into a thick black night, sounds funny huh, chasing the thrill in the little moments, I suppose anything to avoid the torments...sounds cheap huh, well packaged and attached, haha, it keeps going for the sake of flowing...next thing you know it's not so funny, and the ground is where you're hiding, your best kept secrets, like the sounds of trees that fall all alone, not wondering or caring if anybody heard them...screaming for an audience unknown...because of nothing, not because you lied or they lied, not because the truth ever existed, not because you looked like the truth, not because their leaving means anything. The growth is real for them.

Telling spells, to what? the night?? Okay, tell me then, let's make some use of these stars...let's have them be birds, flowers of the sky, starlings making songs in lieu of the basic chirp...go ahead, let's make beauty of the humble ugly...go ahead, let's keep spilling until the ground stops bugging. Until we can look at it, until it's just as unmoving as we, were ever gonna be.

I suppose I've been a ghost all along, you've done nothing wrong,
best to know that I was unstable from the start, I was just trying to be steady, I was just trying to actually be trying. So i say what I say so you can protect the future, of some other pair of lonely eyes, of other actually honest minds.

What is life? What is reality? Is this a start of song?
Are we living in oblivity (is this a word? it makes perfect sense)

Why are there so many question?
Too little time, too many books. Don't really want to read them all, do I (most of them are boring :D)?

Should any of it make sense, maybe it doesn't? Is that really hard to fathom and comprehend.
This give me no joy, happiness might be fleeting, only inner peace is a guarantee.
Though I wouldn't know, I am not trying to make sense here.

Enough of rambling, lets start rhyming.
The bread is baking
The sea is quaking
I am not punctuating, or am I?
I aint I dont mind
Mind is a palace
cold cold cold so so cold
lets go