I don’t have an answer to that question, yet There are some indicators though, some tangible facts That can’t prove otherwise I feel my cells degenerate Not my skin cells, no But those of my soul Are those tangible enough? The metabolism of my brain and thoughts Once fast and high Is now slower than a turtle How can I know I am tired? I squeeze my thoughts to write this post Writing … which once was a natural process Requiring no efforts from my lousy heart, mind or fingers Is becoming a burden on my soul A weight I can’t get rid of I need to write to take the load off I need to take the load off to write Is that called brain metamorphosis? Is it a natural process of aging? Is it the lack of sunshine Or the excessive clouds shading my soul? Did I become that tired person I was constantly escaping from?
I enter the minds of random people Sitting around me in a bar I sneak into their tiny brains Fetch my way through the colored threads Of their most meaningless and their wisest thoughts I tiptoe around Looking for a unique idea, a mind blowing desire, Or a long forgotten memory, in the blackest hole of their minds And in a moment of revelation, I find one And then I spend the remaining hour or so Putting all my energy together Trying by all means to pull that thought, desire, or memory Out of their brains To shape it into airborne words that land on their tongues For a fraction of a second or two And then I pull them out of their mouths, slowly And I use those words to write my poems That’s what I do to kill time Sitting alone in a bar Killing can be a fun process And it puts together good pieces of words One after the other, In a useless poem