My thoughts
they are unimportant
the garbled input of whatever
like being adrift amid lifes pick pocket
that purveyor of my business
that allows ideas to escape.
Some are like perfume
filled with many ideas,
others an odour
one that I would rather bury
yet the pick pocket throws it into my thoughts.
Sometimes I despair
my thoughts are too many
keep me awake
insist that I write,
like hands clasped with the past
while reaching out to the future
they control me
sometimes lift me up
amid the clouds,
others drop me down
into an abyss.
They are as I said
unimportant
better shredded like streamers
than given acsess too
for the pick pocket to arrrive
and misuse,
unimportant perfumes and odours
trapped in my head.
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