Crappy Poetry

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 02, 2018

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Submitted: August 02, 2018



The mind is too beautiful, too phenomenal, and too much of an utter enigma to become a cliche. The window to my mind is closed. The garden rooted in my amygdala has withered, and my neurons are unconcerned with typical metaphorical ideas. I don't think, I just happen to exist, but I am not a slave to the precious aquarian trapped in my skull.

My brain, and therefore my mind is too complex, and I am tired of it becoming just a prefix for crappy poetry.

That being said... I feel like your mind and mine are one and a whole.

I feel like you have held my mind in your own very two hands, and have tangibly tweaked with the dendrites and axons until they made drawbridges between me and the memory of your smile.

I feel like while my neurons are too lazy to spin serotonin into gold and relinquish too much control to the venus traps in my amygdala, they still get a rush just out of hearing your laugh.

I feel like while my precious dopamine has lost its way through my mesolimbic labyrinth and my old coping mechanisms have thus turned to dust, my whole brain still lights up when you say my name.

The mind is too beautiful, too phenomenal, and certainly too delicate to be handled like a cliche. My mind may have become black, cavities and caves of endless temptation, but you make it come to full potential again.

Your mind is too singularly captivating to be rendered nothing more than a crutch for my sanity, as is the tired cliche of the metaphorical mind being taken advantage of in poetry.

And I, like many poets before me, are guilty of doing just so.

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