Is a cluttered desk
the sign of a crowded mind?
Ignored and tolerated for a while,
until words find no peace or room to breathe.
Clutter, like a pregnant pause unpaved, caved in, depraved, the poet thinks in rhyme or flies free as an eagle in a wounded sky.
Trajectories of thought emerge, evacuated by grey matter,
cerebral splatter,
raw emotion sputtered and submerged in mindless chatter,
it’s like poking through someone else’s trash,
someone else’s treasured stash
of ashes that fester like cemented resentment, devoid of contentment, before blossoming or exploding into bitter, unapologetic disappointment.
Messy words
tend to muddle rantings at their first provocation,
Syllables
crowded in standing room only,
but who can see the forest through the trees,
or clarity through the clutter?
There might be a bounty set on my head,
by random, ransomed words holding me hostage,
impatiently waiting for their clean, defined space.
Until then, I find myself blocked, erased,
knowing I should just charge them rent, for living in my head.
Some words derive pleasure in flirtation,
especially the ones that shine like diamonds in the midnight sky,
but they can’t line your empty pockets
until they fill your cluttered mind.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
