Literature
It
It is invisible to us
It exists in solitude
It knows it exists, but knows nothing more
It pulls things in, pushes things out
It grows spikes and builds walls
It designs its own vicious weaponry
It latches on to things
It fights to keep holding on
It attacks, it kills
It creates things not meant for this world
It lies, to you and to all of us
It weaves dreams, like a spider
It gets tangled up in its own web
It gets crowded
It gets messy
It gets damaged
It gets lost
It crumbles
Such is your mind,
beautiful like a thunderstorm.