My mind is out of control.
Sometimes, I wish I had a remote,
so I could press pause once in a while—
just enough to sort out the old thoughts before the new ones rush in.
But my mind doesn't work that way; it thinks in paragraphs, each thought unfolding into the next, filling up endless pages.
It's a library of half-written stories, every narrative woven with another, tangled and unfinished.
And sometimes, I find myself lost between the lines, wandering through fragments of thoughts,
caught in the spaces where sentences collide, wondering if I'll ever reach the end of a chapter or if I'm destined to live within the margins.
I feel trapped in the margins,
desperately trying to scribble in the blank spaces,
reaching, grasping for clarity,
but the words keep spilling, sprawling, smudging across the pages.
No matter how hard I try to contain them, they slip through my fingers,
blurring the lines, I long to define.
Some days, I wish I could turn down the volume, drown out the noise,
find a quiet place where the pages stay empty, where no ink can spill,
where I can finally breathe.
But the stories keep crashing in, flooding my mind, an unstoppable tide;
they won't let me be
my mind is a library that refuses to set me free.
YOU ARE READING
Echoes of the Lost
PoetryIn a world that often feels overwhelming and uncertain, poetry has been my refuge, my way of making sense of the chaos around me. This collection is born from a place of introspection and longing, a testament to the raw emotions and profound questio...
