Goo.

A piece of muddle 

sits impassively

in the corner of your logic-processing organ,

the "brain" we call it. 

You stare at it 

an image so clear so thorough in your head

The muddle paces
backwards, forwards,

 fast-forwards
and repeat its routine. 

Sometimes you ask, you shout, you demand. 

The muddle looks at you, 

it scoffs, it chuckles, 

it indifferently walks away. 

Your eyes are tired,

your logic is drained, 

the muddle continues to recklessly tread

back and forth

back, and forth

Muddle, 

here's a packed suitcase, a(n) ukulele, and a plane ticket to Hawaii. 

Kindly leave me alone.