Wednesday, November 25, 2015


Trickling in slower than sap dripping down the side of a heavily barked tree
My ideas come to me
They always ask the same question
Am I important enough to be transferred to paper
I say that it depends on the type of paper
The puzzled look on the faces of my ideas makes me smile
I tell them that some are fit for the finest rag vellum money can buy
The ideas shift and talk amongst themselves excitedly
I continue that others would be relegated to adorn my bathroom tissue
That remark garners only thick and desperate silence
I love it when my ideas get worried