Bookshelves

I file ideas in bookshelves,
Each one is in its place;
My mind is like a library,
All perfectly arranged—

It’s all compartmentalized;
I find the facts I need,
Then when I’m finished, I return
Whatever I have read—

It seems so convenient
To catalog my brain,
But all these bookshelves split my mind
And make me feel insane—

I do not want my life to consist
Of jumping box to box,
Where careful watch is kept
Ensuring they aren’t mixed—

I want my thoughts to be connected,
So I can be myself—
I’ll weld each book into my soul
And burn the shelves.