Last month I had two 'pieces'

Almost fighting each other

In their anxiety to be 'born',

In even the roughest scribble.

Me First! Me first!

They amused me with their squawking

But they were irritating.

 

Imagination is amazing.

Where does it come from,

The drive to be alive in words?

The 'need to write' is like a fish

Swimming through weeds in a murky pond.

Up – down – round and round - round and round -

Going nowhere.

However broad or deep, a pond is a puddle!

And so in the mind, a muddy puddle,

A thought weaving through the weeds

Round and round

Going nowhere.

 

It makes me chuckle,

The writer's utter conviction

That what he/she has to say

Matters to anyone else.

Such arrogance of 'special personality!'

What vulnerability in exposure.

But we don't care.

We risk it.

 

Oh, I lost the two ideas aforementioned.

But the thought about the thoughts

Tickled my fancy

And might raise a fellow smile.