ms. fathead.

My head is growing larger
 as the thoughts inside
swirl violently
and cause it to
 e  x  p  a  n  d.

 Thoughts of everything,
 anything,
nothing
all in one,
if that makes any sense.


"Everything has a reason,"
I tell you.
"Ever the philosopher,"
you reply, then adamatly
refuse to explain.

 Since a ballerina is out of the question,
I think that I shall
be a box tomorrow.
Noone ever expects anything from a box,
except for it to house their secrets.