How Do They Call These “Crushes” Have They No Sense of Reality Whatsoever?

The Bookworm's picture

A poem I just wrote:

How Do They Call These “Crushes” Have They No Sense of Reality Whatsoever?

My mind is not a democracy.
It is a dictatorship.
I am it’s power-crazy ruler
and I would not have it any other way.
If I cannot control my head
what is there to control?
Welcome to mild OCD.

Hormones
are the insidious rebels
that run rampant
within the walled kingdom
of my mind
Slipping past the defenses,
the filters, the boarder guards
Shamelessly sneaking right into
the heart of the kingdom
they quickly and effeciantly set traps
wrought change with a fist
as iron as the one I use to rule.

Eventually, they begin the true attack
with alarming efficientcy
they plant the bomb that brings
the kingdom to it’s knees
undermines, and then removes
the control
changes the filters, both opening and closing the boarders
all the hard work
for organization, for control
is destroyed.
And the dictator sits crying in the rubble.

Then, of course, the dictator breaks into a grin
Because no dictator is sane
because my mind is too varied
to exist on only one plane of reality
And the dictator dances for joy
as she slowly begins to clean the rubble
once more creating order out of chaos
but this time
letting the chaos remain.