Stream of Consciousness

Still waters

Shallow puddles

Ideas floating downstream

Like so much flotsam

And I’m waving from the shoreline

Watching them float on by

Sometimes resigned to the fact

That there are too many of them,

They move too fast,

And are too far out of my reach.

I hear a familiar voice

Telling me I shouldn’t try so hard.

Is that my voice?

Well that just proves I’m an idiot.

Shut the fuck up!

Reach for what you want.

You do have talent.

Then again, maybe you don’t

But that’s okay

Talent is having a sharp pencil–

It won’t write any stories

By itself.

You can work,

Hard.

Put word after word,

Reach out,

Grab an idea,

Or two,

Or ten,

As they float on by.

Wrestle them down to the paper.

Push them down

Into the fibers of your being,

Water them

With tears and sweat

And blood,

Until they take root

On the shoreline of your dreams

And bear fruit.

Fruit so sweet

You almost forget

How much work it took to grow.

But now you have somewhere to climb

And if you turn your back,

For just a moment,

You can finally scratch that itch

Down the center of your being

While you act like a horse’s ass.

And the ideas keep floating by…

Are they the same ideas

Over and over again?

Or are you thinking up new things?

Maybe you should think less

And plant more.

Pick up the pencil,

The magic wand

Of words.

Create entire worlds

Out of whispered sounds.

Incantations

Of the imagination.

And enjoy the solitude

Of a tree fort

Built along the shore.

Or get off your ass

And swim.