Bookshelf

The books on my shelf are my tattoos. The covers are comforts and windows to my mind. They are a display of my thoughts. Thoughts that run rampant in a dizzying spiral suddenly have points in space and time. My thoughts have buckets in these books. My questions have answers and the answers create more questions. 

The shelf in my mind is messy indeed. The ideas and memories and ambitions are scattered like papers shoved into random spaces. One day I retrieve a piece of paper with a verse in my curse. I don’t remember writing it, but it’s honest and true. Sometimes, it’s just a to-do. 

These walls. These walls confine. These white walls box me in. I’m trapped. I can’t breathe. I can’t get out a sentence. One single line. 

Time! 

Oh! How easy art would be if time I could not see! 

How beautiful it is to follow dreams without the sting of death within. 

How hard it is to work towards a goal so hidden, if indeed it exists at all. 

Pay the bills, flush it down, eat your lunch and it’s dinner now. The night is quiet, but not my mind. 

I pace and pace and cannot find. 

I can’t decide. 

Throw art away to survive, or kill the thought and slowly die.

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