Restless Thoughts

My thoughts are never silent,
They continuously pester me.
In the morning I start with a routine,
Then the day slows
And begins again with every class.

What's that formula?
How will I remember that?
When will I have time to work on this?
I feel as if what is waiting for me
Outside the window beyond every wall
Will entrap me
As soon as I leave this class.

By noon my eyes begin to droop
And my head begins to pound.
The food is just settling,
Adding to the pounds of
Unsatisfying greasiness already in my stomach.

My head throbs over and over again
As I regret the hour
In which I competed in a staring contest with the clock
And it lost.

It glared at me constantly,
It moved,
While I was still.
I could not look away even after the game was over.

My eyes struggle to push themselves up,
So they lay themselves down
And give in to the unsettling darkness.

My phone buzzes and forces me awake.
I stare at the screen that is as bright as day,
With rays as harmful as staring straight at the sun.

It attaches itself to me,
Disallowing the continuation of sleep
And my eyes revel
In the moving of objects,
Flashing of colors,
And constant entertainment.

Every thought behind my eyes goes dark.
The screen is not playing,
The song is silenced,
The story is stopped,
Every picture and every sound
Halts their breath,
And I worry.

I worry I will forget to talk to myself,
Soothing away every fear
Till it is out of reach.
I worry each memory will disappear
And leave the old me behind,
Never to return.

I fear I will hate to do puzzles,
I fear I will hate to go on long walks,
I fear I will hate to read and write,
And my passion will cool and freeze over,
Never to be reached or felt again.

I love every passion I have,
Especially my passion for language
And the hot burning fire I feel
When I think of the power of words.

Most of all,
I love my complicated, intricate, clumsy, messy thoughts
That layer over one another
And the string that pulls each idea into the other.

Every idea relates to the other,
And each idea has thousands of layers,
Like the rocks and soil that surrounds us.

I acknowledge my writing
May have an uneducated tone,
It may have unclear diction,
And the structure may be confusing and jumbled.

But this is my writing,
My words,
My passion.
How can I apologize for the ideas
Which echo out of my very soul,
And the depths of my most personal thoughts?

Once I am apologetic
Every word will be in question,
Every idea treads as a whisper,
And I watch in pity and deep sorrow
Because I saw these thoughts, ideas, and words,
When they were beautifully bright, and bold, and unapologetic.

These words have no place
With one who allows sparks to die out,
Who accepts shadows rather than the real thing,
Who willingly places themselves inside a box of do's and don'ts.

That box is one where dreams go to die.
Inside of a neat square,
With a comfortable white pillow and white linen.
It is neat because it is dead.

Life is messy,
My words are messy,
And I refuse to let my dreams die.