Snap-crackle-and-pop

go the synapses in my brain.

     Snap-crackle-pop

          Snap-crackle... pop?

  Uhmm... Jaysus,

sorry. I forgot what I was saying.

 

It's this long term memory

             that evades me

          once again burning on these finger tips

     but never within this grasp

          floating away like danelion seeds on the wind

     leaving me with an ugly

                                           empty stem of information

                                                          without meaning.

 

Determination means nothing.

Will power won't help me.

Thoughts of mind over matter

                                                don't matter

Not when my minds fights off its own process of learning

              by never allowing a still moment.

                           These feet? Tapping.

                           These fingers? Drumming.

                                                         Eyes snapping to their peripherals.

Ears picking up sounds without decibles,

            constantly keeping my attention divided,

United in a cacophony so caustically vibrant

I can't help but follow the Pied Piper in my mind.

 

It was a childhood exuberance

                       turned into adolescent antics

                                            now adulthood issues.

 

These loose lips sink ships when they trip

             over every word or thought.

     A sturdy hull cannot be bought.

         Holes rot whether I like it or not.

              These efforts go for naught

               when I can't tie a knot around my thoughts

              to keep my mind anchored.

 

The flutter of a butterfly steals these eyes

for the umpteenth time and I could cry

    tears of joy and saddness for the beauty

and the maddness of distractions.

 

Reactions to each refraction of light

  f r a c t u r e  all productivity

producing a hollow shell of what could be

      if only this dopamine would not evade me.

I feel like I'm crazy             because these memories are hazy.

                                or lazy

These words escape me

                                     fading from my tongue like camera flashes.

This thought process dashes from crash to crash

        trying to bridege     the    gaps    between these synapses.

 

These shoulders have been creaking and cracking,

                                            groaning and slumping

                                                   under the dead weight

                                                   under the saddled shame

        from failing to sit in place long enough

        to have the outlines of these memories traced.

I can't keep pace with the rate at which

         these pages are erased,

  so I guage my progress though cracked mirrors

                                                     and broken meters.

 

I've got a knack for missing exits.

 

When I lie out on a living room rug

   and watch old Hanna-Barbera cartoons,

I wish these memories wouldn't stutter

   the sound of my Mimi calling me in for dinner.