What’s the worth trying to dig underneath the floorboards where I buried memories six feet under. So much is spent watching black ink drip as it scribbles across fine lines of paper—I could write about how my mind was five years ago, or let it all sink in but never turns into a complete thought. Evidently those ghost written memories find their way through open cracks; a cloud of smoke formed with words and voices enter my marauder mind. It never took notice how much each pure thought grows along with me.

Picturing how days would be if I could just put it all in a box, fall on my bed and tune out from bright lights and fall continuously in deep depths of tranquility. Eventually pens will fall, papers will be soaked with ink and crumpled up balls of incomplete nonsense thrown into an inferno waste basket. Ironic how a collection of wasted words start to pile up until it reaches the ceiling labeled waste of complete space. 

After a while I gave up trying to force words that aren’t even in existence. Watching as a beam of light shines in between what is the mess of nonsensical, unfinished pieces of my mind that were never recycled. Gladly pouring a dead body upside down and watch all the tangled knots drop with sentences that didn’t even make sense.