The Subconcious Poem by Gary Diamond

What really goes on in the deep recesses of a man's mind?
The whole cluttered story of dream-filled sleep as it unwinds.
The random assortment of thought and fancy.
It's all being re-arranged by your brain.

Some people's minds are as quiet and tidy as a library on a sunday.
Others are awash with noise and mess.
Others still have painted theirs in bright primary colours.
For the newborn baby, everything is pink and soft and interesting in there.

It's an odd little venue, perhaps.
Full of treasure and trash and guilt.
Full of joy and sadness and neurosis.
There are sometimes skeletons bursting out of the mind's closet and basement.
Dirt under the rug in the mind of the criminal.

We employ the psychiatrist, the policeman.
To try and keep the mind in check by providing it with powerful images of authority.
When you're lying there on the quack's couch and spilling your guts
It's almost as if you've decided it's time for a spring cleaning
And a new coat of paint.

People sometimes worry that their subconcious desires are going to spill out
People came to the conclusion that the soul's windows are the eyes
And took to wearing dark glasses because of it.
When they don't make eye contact, it's like a full motel room.
Room for no-one, nothing more.
Too much effort.

I think it's fun to let the subconcious take the wheel sometimes.
Most people do it when they're asleep.
Some can do it any time.
Those are the people you want to meet.
So share your subconcious.
You might like what you see in it,
And what it allows people to see of themselves with it.