The Mind Grind
It is the season
Of the grind
When my mind works away
At this thing that is my life
It is the season
When the grind
Becomes so intense
That my mind begins to smoke
And wear away at itself
Like an engine without oil
It is the season
When my tears fall up instead of down
Once my mind begins to smoke
And there is no escape
I find myself doubled over
On the floor
And the tears stream up my eyebrows
Over my forehead
And into my hair
It is the season
When all becomes exposed and rehashed
Like the blemishes that are found
Below an old carpet:
Blood stains from battles fought
Ink stains from words that cannot be unsaid
Scratches from wounds that cannot be un-inflicted
Untrodden sections from projects never started and goals unfulfulled
Holes from the people that are no longer in my life – by death or disappointment –
It is the season
Of this mind grind
That weakens my eyes
Wearies my head
Slows my body
And fatigues my heart
Until I can replenish the oil
And cover over the exposed blemishes once again
Copyright © 2013 AKA
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