Sieve head
My mind, I fear, is shot through full of holes.
It’s less a thinking organ than a sieve;
And yet, I still contrive somehow to live
Adopting (out of duty) real-world roles.
My memory, for instance, cannot hold
The idea of the time we’re due to meet,
Or where, or what it is you want to eat;
But knows the reactivity of gold.
There is, it’s true, a facet where it shines:
It’s up there, overthinking with the best;
And often, when in bed, I get no rest
While it explodes its social-anxious mines.
There’s one good thing about this mental sieve:
It leaks away the fucks that I should give.