I marinate and stew inside my mind
And every thought infects the others' juices.
I cannot quite partition them by kind,
For they slide through whatever mental sluices
I place between them; all my thoughts conjoin
And make a common of their worse defects
So that I pay myself in too-clipped coin
No longer potent in its good effects.
I am devolved from who I ought to be;
The self of me has made itself the worse.
And though still recognizable as me,
I get less so the more that I rehearse
My problems in my mind, and make them grow
Larger than they really are, I know.
No comments:
Post a Comment