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The Attic

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Like a grandmother’s old attic is my mind.
Boxes are stacked from wall-to-wall;
some in front, some behind.
I once read somewhere that it is best to
pack the bad memories out of sight,
so those boxes are on the bottom,
under the ones that are light.
The problem with this system that arose
was that the bottom boxes all started to decompose.
Out of the holes the nightmares would creep,
and like liquid into my brain they started to seep.
As the demons ran wild I made a decision:
my old packaging system needed a revision.
Now the boxes I own no longer reside in stacks,
for I found it far easier to find
someone to help me unpack.



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