My mind is awash in half-formed ideas, phrases strung together in a cacophony of sound that makes very little sense.
If someone could listen in..get back in your chair..the things they’d overhear..birthday cake, cake would be a good title..I’m not yet sleepy..it feels weird to not have work to do, I must be missing something.
My left brain keeps attacking my right. Logic holds back the emotion and pure thought in an undercurrent just below the surface. Words create forms for the thoughts, like blowing bubbles to contain breaths of sweet creativity. They float up into the ether, pop. Lost.
It’s poetry refusing to be confined to a recognizable shape. I can see it, smell it, feel it, but not touch it for fear my influence would mar it. The sounds captivate me, but still I contain it. I mold it, and it convulses in rage.
Let me out.
You’re not ready.
I hope when the oven door opens, the cake is delicious.