My head is made of nooks in which I flaunt and hide my thoughts.
Bedazzling frazzling fragmented stories
Stirring whirring crackling cackle
The broadly radiating relics, and the snappy shit alike.
Some are in perfect order, all worked out and viable.
Most crash and disperse in the back of my head, without distinction
good and bad.
Some barely hang on to the eyelash after a flutter, singing their way back in
the nook of forever.
How will I ever get me?
How to distinguish pearls from swines and know when to cast them?
How to order the threads of the unwoven web?
I have no clue.
Me, trying to catch air with a butterfly net.
"Porcelain, are you wasting away in your skin?"
- Porcelain, Red Hot Chili Peppers