I collect many things
an abundance of ideas and items
both physical and metaphorical
I collect some things that make me happy,
books to distract my idle mind
words to inspire when I’m feeling down.
Pens and pencils and notebooks
to transfer my ideas to paper.
I collect sounds to lull my mind to slumber
on nights when silence is unbearable.
But I also collect things I fear I deserve
I collect pain
I collect fear
I collect scars
I collect hours upon hours of unpleasantries
to pay some sort of penance
for whatever sins I feel I’ve committed.
Because how can I face the goodness and light
in this world
Knowing my mind works
like a semi-automatic weapon.
It’s a toxin, a poison.
A vacuum that sucks in anyone who gets too close.
And since it cannot be stopped,
I must push away the innocent,
because while there is love in me,
enough to brighten the darkest night
There is also a terrible rage,
the likes of which should never be allowed escape.
I fear that they cannot coexist
and I cannot release one without the other,
so I must repress them both.
That is why I keep collecting.
Collect more sleepless nights,
collect more pain.
collect more distractions,
to keep that black slug inside of me at bay.
Keep it from infecting others,
or imploding inside of me.
I will keep collecting,
until I can’t anymore.
until there’s no room for anything,
and the cluttered house in my soul collapses.
and crushes the darkness inside of me.
I do hope the light finds its way out the back door.