My thoughts

they are unimportant

the garbled input of whatever

like being adrift amid lifes pick pocket

that purveyor of my business

that allows ideas to escape.

Some are like perfume

filled with many ideas,

others an odour

one that I would rather bury

yet the pick pocket throws it into my thoughts.

Sometimes I despair

my thoughts are too many

keep me awake

insist that I write,

like hands clasped with the past

while reaching out to the future

they control me

sometimes lift me up

amid the clouds,

others drop me down

into an abyss.

They are as I said

unimportant

better shredded like streamers

than given acsess too

for the pick pocket to arrrive

and misuse,

unimportant perfumes and odours

trapped in my head.