Pondering on how thoughts are thunk,
mayhap they're up before the dawn,
giggling themselves silly as they rummage through a junk chest in the attic of our mind;
To an old drawing of the past they are drawn.

Those little punks-
sliding down the spiral staircase of contemplation,
shaking and striking on gongs of self-doubt which rattles,
whooping as they jiggle and prance around bad decisions.

Arms full they carry huge chunks of heartbreaks...
little reminders of that unfortunate morning with John,
reenactment of how you yourself pulled the trigger to that gun,
sympathy? Those thoughts seem to have none.

Just when you seem to decide to get rid of them,
grab them by the neck to force them back to their bunk,
whoosh, they're slipping out of your grip and slinking back into the coziness of the mind. 

Never pay them too much attention nor chase them about;
You can hear their subtle chuckles, 
for them — it's fun.