Tricky little things that fill my head,

Growing louder if left unsaid,

Fizzing, soaring, looping, burning, shouting, thundering in my mind,

The happy sort or the sad kind,

Too much, too many, too little, too late,

About life, about love, about nonsense, about fate,

If I try to listen; when I try to sleep,

They grow impatient; they screech, they beep,

Some drag me from reality; they
leave me seemingly blind, dumb and deaf,

They take so much time; there’s always some left,

They create an idea I adore and want to make real,

Then when I try, they turn to doubts; it’s surreal,

They lift me to euphoria but can also drop me to depression,

Some so fleeting, some make an impression,

Always intensified by a feeling or emotion,

They leave me oblivious to this world; I just go through each motion,

Some deep and dark like a bottomless lake,

I try to stay above water but I always sink for god sake,

Sometimes I could just bask in their glow,

Sit in wonderment of life; in awe of what I don’t know,

Then they can turn dark and jagged and sharp and I’m left in the space in-between,

Of where I want to go and where I have been,

They’re hope, then despair,

They’re joy, and then I need air,

I hope that they’re what make me, me,

And not just these things that prevent what I want to do and be,

A blessing, then a curse,

Oh I could write verse after verse,

So easily transformed by the music I hear,

They become consumed by the songs I hold dear,

They can be so inescapably self-destructive and grim,

Like how the chances of getting what I want from life are so slim,

And sometimes when they become that fog that leaves me unseeing,

I feel so self-indulged, then from myself I am fleeing,

But they can be bright, mostly they’re good,

I know I can’t always be content them; that much is understood,

What I wish is that they didn’t make me feel trapped and imprisoned like they control me,

If there wasn’t so many would I be thoughtless and free?

And I don’t know what would be worse-

Knowing that I’m too different and can never be understood,

Or if I’m just the same as everyone else, that these are just standard thoughts part of humanities livelihood,

Mostly they’re of my own creation,
Or suddenly a character, villain, or world I’m addicted to from another imagination,

It would be nice of our actions and words are truly the definition of who we are,

But it’s our thoughts; the brilliant, the genius, the pained, the corrupted, in life they go far,

I know at times I hate them; they’re wild and they can hurt, they make me bleary and lost,

But if they weren’t layered and complex life would be dull, and that’s a higher cost,

As long as you remember it’s alright to love-self and alright to self-loathe,

Your bad thoughts can never take you down a bad road,

They shift as you learn; they escape through your voice or inside they always stay,

My thoughts won’t shut up; I wouldn’t have it any other way.