Heavy pictures that change their character

my mind crawls like heavy scribbles by my 5 year old hands, I remember being Taunted by a old couple that accused me of putting things on their car

I know I didn’t do that, I recall older me going into a family friend’s new car

I told myself to be respectful and to not touch anything. I didn’t touch anything yet after the ride, they accused me of touching the windows.

I know …I am very sure I didn’t do it

Teenage me had manic depression and ptsd

My doctor told my mom terrible things I never said

Was it the medication or did I imagine saying nothing at all?

I’m fairly certain of the things I never said

I feel as full as a garbage bin than that the garbage man never emptied

Today, I rewatched a film I enjoyed as a young teen, Paper House

The pictures were distorted, nebulous and ethereal as I remember but it was all wrong

I’m so utterly certain

I remember a scene before she went into the house and the boy had no lower body

No mouth to talk

It was straight into her talking to him upstairs

What is it about my mind

my mind is like a series of cluttered, heavy pictures that change their character

One from angry to sad

Sad to accusing

Love to madness

Madness to love

Like did my mother mean to scare me to death

Or get me to behave

The mind weighs such matters in a screeching, surreal and nebulous form

No dreams that can solve it

No nightmares to churn into processed trauma

Like Diane from Bojack, I feel I don’t have “good damage” to create something beautiful afterall,

That all my books and poems and letters are all shit

Mediocre shit too, not good enough to even complain

But the heavy pictures that scram from the gutter of my brain

Captures a screenshot of frozen pain

Maybe it will melt into a flowing stream

Maybe it will change again.