The mind is like a textbook,
written by an ugly fat greedy sloth,
filled to the brim with stories,
to feed his gluttonous gut.
The mind is like a record player,
tucked away in a pool of dust.
Spinning and skipping and tripped on repeat.
The mind is like a computer program,
installed by the same monster who wrote the
Press a key,
the code prevails.
The mind is like an aircraft set to
The aviator fell asleep,
but not to panic.
Modern consoles control flight envelope
from just after take off to
Where are we going?
The mind is like a play (scripted by you know who),
a long drawn out elaborate story with twists and turns,
that make no sense at all,
and ends with all the characters
forgetting their lines.
~ Tara Palov