X marks the spot
My memory bank leaves me filthy rich,
even in that often thought of ditch.
Loved ones so terrified of the side of the road,
imagine me all dirty, choked, and broke.
My tender
my note
My burden
my yoke
I will pass on full of dream-ore and heavy pleasure,
an unmined mind completely filled with treasure.
Excavate!
Please, steal from me!
I need to be relieved.
I could buy a life devoid of all quality,
but that kind of life I shot,
trespassing on my property.
Trust pile, page on top of page,
and words Written–
Will I then die wealthy?
with each and every vision,
stowed inside bluing caverns,
securely stacked,
behind touchy jagged eyelids,
and set taught my twice barbed lashes,
always uneasy and waiting on the snap,
of my soft-catch,
tooth wrapped tongue-hold traps?
Hoarding my value to the point of absolute poverty.
You see?
I’m full of thoughts that need to be taken,
or I’m prone to waste them.
For my fear is losing them,
confusing and forgetting them.
Living and dying with them,
having never shared them.
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