Postcard 8

My head is stuffed, it's all

Filled up, packed with thoughts

That feel like worms

They move through my

Cerebral folds, they wriggle and

They squirm

Like parasites, they grow fat

They feed on what I learn

Then slide against themselves,

Exchanging DNA,

Creating new life that in turn

Takes up more space that isn't

There, so some thoughts do

Escape, burst out,

Spew forth, though there are not many

Exits (from my head) besides my mouth.

Some move slower and would prefer

To be in there forever, so I have to

Lure them out, pull gently lest

They break and others

Will never leave, they are mine

Until the end, though I wouldn't

Go so far as calling any of them friend