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I sit down to write then up blows a storm
Thunder and lightening and gallons of rain
The ideas that flash in and out of my brain
Are just like the weather
Being sucked down a drain,
That dark, dank subterranean lobby
That filters the waste on its way to the sea.
There must be a sea or a very large pool
Where ideas are processed to become somebody's gruel
A factory of words, inventions and thoughts
Mixed up and blended and pushed into shape
Away from the maelstrom, that mangling of form
That whirlpool of letters where ideas battle and swarm
To become something useful or at least an escape
From everyday living, the boredom of norm.
I sat down to write then up blew this telling turmoil
This excursion to frenzy and fever and rush
Where everything boils, shivers, quivers and suffers recoil
At the sight of the ideas turned into slush.
A pattern emerges and I take up a pen
The storm clouds subside,it's sunny again
The brainstorm of ideas are now merely a stain
In the fictional pool at the end of a drain. |