Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get
out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out
of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my
head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head.
Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get
out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out
of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my
head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head.
Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get
out of my head. Get out of
Get.
Out.
Of.
My.
Head.

Get out of my head before I do what I know is best for you.
Get out of my head before I listen to everything she said to me.
Get out of my head before I show you how much I love you.
Get out of my head before I finish writing this poem.

But a poem is never actually finished.
It just stops moving.

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It happened in the dead of night while I was slicing bread for a guilty snack.
My attention was caught by the scuttering of a raccoon outside my window.
That was, I believe, the first time I noticed my strange tendencies as an unusual
human.
I gave the raccoon a piece of bread, my subconscius well aware of the consequences.
Well aware that a raccoon that is fed will always come back for more.
The enticing beauty of my cutting knife was the symptom.
The bread, my hungry curiosity.
The raccoon, an urge.

The moon increments its phase and reflects that much more light off of my cutting
knife.
The very same light that glistens in the eyes of my raccoon friend.
I slice the bread, fresh and soft. The raccoon becomes excited.
or perhaps I'm merely projecting my emotions onto the newly-satisfied animal.

The raccoon has taken to following me.
You could say that we've gotten quite used to each other.
The raccoon becomes hungry more and more frequently, so my bread is always handy.
Every time I brandish my cutting knife the raccoon shows me its excitement.
A rush of blood. Classic Pavlonian conditioning. I slice the bread.
And I feed myself again.

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The colors, they won't
Bright, bea t ful c l rs
Flash ng, exp nd ng, piercing
Red, green, blue
An ndless
CACOPHANY
Of meaningless
noise

The noise, it won't STOP.
Viol nt, grating w vef rms
Sq e king, screech ng, piercing
SINE, COSINE, TANGENT
Like play ng a ch lkboard on a t rntable
Like playing a KNIFE on a BREATHING RIBCAGE
n ndl ss
p m
Of m n ngl ss








Delete Her