Untitled

My head these days
Cuts, hacks, collates
And neatly puts things in place.
Some dreams
Some thoughts
Some people
Are wrapped in pretty paper.
Some thoughts
Unsent letters
Backs of photographs
Lie like yesterday's newspaper.
Some thoughts preserved to ponder over
Some thoughts with no feeling whatsoever.
The slashing, hacking, slicing, ripping
Like the song of the construction worker
Is a slow hum that doesn't bother
And is drowned out by music.