A trip into the Attic

Words do not come-here-free,


My head is a sea of garbage.

Thoughts collecting dust-

like a fine coated varnish, upon a dirty oil painted

canvas with a broken backing.

All these years since,

yet we never finished-

the unpacking.

Almost every mania, I’ve ever had,

I have run away from you.

I pack my bags and go-yes just GO….a little crazy.

Looking through the attic

brought back memories,

themselves as well were packed away.

A thousand apologies and what more-

can i say?

An illness which transports me

through time and space,

into a separate reality.

One without a saving grace.

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