I wonder what it feels like
To be unwritten -- a thought
An idea striving to be inscribed
To be something that never was
And probably never will be.
I wonder about their fate.
Do they leave for another mind
Devoid of creativity or otherwise
Or stay there, eternally waiting
Locked-up in imagination limbo?
Are they just there, sitting
In the cold corners of my mind
Stuck midway between the sulci
Wilting into imagiary nothingness
Or struggling to become a reality?
What makes a thought complete?
Are they sewn up together in threads
Of liquor and crazed insobriety,
Patched up with deathless dreams
For the sake of being written?
I wonder what if feels like
To be written and yet incomplete
The half-thoughts on paper
Mixed up with other half-thoughts
In an indecipherable jumble
Maybe that's what I'm lacking
New beginnings, laughter, love,
Happy endings, there's a limit
To what experience allows me
To write or, to an extent, feign.
I speak for the voices left behind
The voices of long slewn ideas
Placed at the back of my mind
Ideas long crushed beneath
Countless writer's blocks
But they live on, they haunt me
In my waking, they still do
Like long forgotten feelings
And the fleeting personas
I never want to go back to.
After all, they were me,
These thoughts and ideas,
Or at least part of me,
For that one instance.
I wonder.
Thoughts are both beautiful and terrible things.