Gaslit mind, mine is blind.
Sunlit eyelids, covered eyes.
Afterimage, booby prize.
It couldn’t be any different,
Out of sight, out of mind.
A snap of a finger (hypnotic drive).
Brainstorming impulse; cloudy eyes.
While karma’s a bitch,
trauma is its son.
Creativity is a burden;
It might as well die.
All the photos I refused to take,
All the group photos I was left out of,
Aren’t making it any better;
The negatives neither.
So, you do think about thinking, huh? But then again, that is you merely thinking.
Sorry if that makes you overthink and, as you now think of it, this is just meta overthinking. Relax, do not think about it, er — I mean, think.
You do not always need to create mental subprocesses — you are not as good at multitasking as you have been told. If it makes you feel better, we are in the same boat.
You are dispersing energy; trust me, you will need it later.
Now, excuse me, I have just heard a “Pen down, time is up.” Oh, thank gosh. I am just as tired as a manual laborer — and all I have done is to write all day. You know, to write is to think.
Reveries That I Call Poetry 