Chaos in my head is a complex
Network of drains intermingled so
Haphazardly that, I never know what
Comes in and what goes out.
It's like a slime mold spreading
Across a substratum, feeding and
Growing at the same time and occupying
Space to become one with the host.
It's a riot really. An angry mob in
Search of free will and my
Conscious self, a dictator who wants
To bring order.
And every time there's a police firing
There's a hairafall.
Use of water canons- there goes
Another wrinkle on the face.
Childhood was unhinged democracy
An experiment to figure out what's
Right, what's not.
Adulthood seems to be an autocracy,
The rebellion for change goes for
A toss to accommodate self-acceptance.
Old age is holding the free bird by
The neck to clip its wings and
The funeral of a flight trickles down
The bald head like it was a chain of
Command from someone above.