The Junkyard of My Mind

The Junkyard of My Mind? the junkyard of my mind is full of images places that I used to belong now they flash before me like lost scenes in time how can something lovely feel so wrong the junkyard called my heart is full of feelings stuff I used to know somewhere in time that rises up and tries to choke me demanding from my spirit to be heard expressed in word Am I right to call these parts a junkyard? just because the memories are cold, or should I call these parts a storeroom where memories become like things of gold