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


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