These things they cling

Dripping honey down a string

Wrapping the brain

Consciousness swoops to claim

Licking at the sweetness

Dopamine

Drops

Addiction sings its sirens song

Calling thoughts forth

To dance

Around and around

And nothing is achieved

Again

*poets, writers, we are addicted to words, thought loops, consciousness forever playing with itself.

I never realised quite how addictive and distracting thinking in and of itself can be.

What an idiot and yet

Sometimes we can’t see the wood for the trees

The mind is also a writers greatest tool. We need to grasp thoughts and words from the ether and hammer them into sentences and to do that there has to be a certain free range edict about consciousness or else it would be the same thing we thought about five minutes ago

And yet

Sometimes it just unravels, spilling more than it gathers

The eternal leaking bucket

More focus

Required