Tisket tasket a waste paper basket
Except it isn’t a basket at all
I’ll tell the truth, you need only ask it
Although the answer's grim, my mind is small
That basket is my very brain itself
Where dead thoughts once dreamed are deposited
I crumple them up along with my health
A reminder that still I’m closeted
It holds my pain, my hopes, my loves and fears
Dead poems and stories, that song for you
The scrawlings of counterproductive years
Were all part of its long gone, now dead crew
Here is where unwanted thoughts are destroyed
This basket’s a black hole, a gulf, a void