I desire original thoughts
because I have the means to share them.
But every passing thread of brilliance is quickly snuffed,
it's spidery sinews retreat.
I feel a brimming in my artistic soul
to bring on feelings the way they've brought on me.
But every emotions' cause has already preceded mine, and me.
I grasp at floating inklings, attempting to coax their being.
But every one bursts in my pleading hand,
and I am left with only a lack;
there isn't anything to understand.