CLUTTER
Tomorrow, I think,
I'll have a yard sale,
and sell all of the shit
I've got stored in my brain.
It's collecting dust on
those high-up shelves, while
angels and devils
play Risk on my skull,
relentless against my lapsing 'time'.
That bleach-white armour
does me no good at all
as they chart out their territories
for confusion, hesitance,
and a subtle but vicious doubt.
I'm tossing and turning,
trying my best to grasp
the simple and naïve dream,
the forgetting,
but they're using my memories
for artillery;
this is a child's war no longer.