A materialized epitome of a dream.

Am I a tired person?

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 steal people's thoughts

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