Thoughts drizzle down in a weary head -
Trying to catch them in word shaped cups,
To freeze their meanings,
To erect coherent sandcastles.
Fingers shake over virgin paper -
Air writing, mind juggling,
And the cigarette ticking away.
Awaiting the music to descend
of that teasing muse,
playing hide and seek in the corners of the mind.
If catharsis isn't a drug, what is?
To put away garbage in pretty colored boxes
And tuck them away under the bed and into the closets.
And lie in muted unconsciousness again.
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