My Mind is Not a Playground, It’s a Junkyard.

insane mind

I do not feel completely alone, but I’m just waiting.  I’m not sure for what.  This street lamp shines on me each night: It does not say much, or can it?  The sky also stares at me as if I possess a language.  Often for hours, we look at each other.  I don’t like it sometimes because it’s so patient, it boils me with solace.  I normally don’t use big words, but some people think it’s ok.  The water soothes my hot feet; I run but not long, my breath has numerous outside appointments.  I wonder when I think/write like this, has my mind broken or retired.   I think both at times; nevertheless, rarely do such thoughts make the pages.  Hold a second my mind is back.  I see its shadow.  Hmm, it’s dirty, “wash yourself, we’ll eat soon.”  My mind runs like an undiscovered stream outside Madison, that’s in Wisconsin.

Mrs. Jones tend to her garden; the stiff spring breeze shoves her physique about.   Once, a vibrant vixen, now she listens to Beethoven and her garden.  From my second floor, I scream!  Mrs. Jones!  She pretends not to hear me.  Mrs. Jones!  I only want her attention to corroborate my presence.  It is sad to live in your mind.  You’re not sure, if you’re alive or, I hate to say this…dead.   In your mind, you run constantly frightened and unaware of reality.  Mrs. Jones!  She can hear me, I know she can, she just ignores me.  My tomato soup is about ready.  I cook it each day at the same time.  The neighbors complain but this is a ruse, they want some.   No!  You had your chance; they scatter from my mind deep inside my consciousness.  They’ll be back for my soup, they always come back.

My dog stares at me as I dodge the cracks in my mind.  A motorbike’s rumble angrily snaps me back to life or fantasy.  I wonder about a woman who rides a motorbike without a partner.  Where is she going?  Does she have an appointment? I’m not sure.  What woman rides a motorbike alone?  Is this reality?  Hmm…the motorbike seems to be turning around, did she hear me thinking.  Hi, why do you ride a motorbike without a partner?  Her stare punches me in the abdomen; I stumble, but regain my balance to see her coming towards me. I run as fast as I can.  A woman who rides a motorbike without a partner seems nice but they scare me.  My dog barks out a melody that says she’ll catch me one day, I don’t normally understand dog talk.  Also, I don’t understand why a woman rides a motorbike alone.

I’ll take one mister, thanks for the ice cream.  It’s hot outside…I run to stay fit.

My mind is exhausted, Mrs. Jones continues to ignore me, my neighbors pretend not to like tomato soup, and a motorbike ejected a woman onto me.  The street light dims the alley lights up, and I look at it from the second floor.  I’m as lonely as it appears, but I make things up.  I create stories when I’m uncertain, afraid.   I write like this when I’m not sure about reality.  I see a man walking toward the tavern, why does he not have a tie about his shirt and suit.  If it’s one thing I think about is why do a man not have a tie about his shirt and suit.  He turns…and stares at me.  I run.

The Invisible Dragon

(unedited and unsupervised)

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