It's been a while
Since I've sat down for this long
Just to write
All the words I can write

They call it a stream of consciousness
But I call it a stream of truth
It's a stream to remember
As it glosses over your skin

Maybe this truth
Will stick around
A bit longer than the sunlight
A bit longer than the nightlight

I don't want my writing to go away
I don't want my writing to be forgotten
I want my writing to stay
I want it to be remembered

A writer only ever wants to stay
That is the mark of a great writer
It's not that hard, to write for a long time
It's pretty hard, for that long time of work to stick around

But don't worry
It's just a stream of consciousness
It's not a hard thing to do
So we will just keep typing and praying for hamlet
To come rolling off our fingers

If you see me with this big white notebook in my arms
it's because I can't get you off my mind
and I want to write down
every stupid poem that I think of
just in case it's a masterpiece

Whispers of heavenly death, murmur’d I hear;
Labial gossip of night—sibilant chorals;
Footsteps gently ascending—mystical breezes, wafted soft and low;
Ripples of unseen rivers—tides of a current, flowing, forever flowing;
(Or is it the plashing of tears? the measureless waters of human tears?)

I see, just see, skyward, great cloud-masses;
Mournfully, slowly they roll, silently swelling and mixing;
With, at times, a half-dimm’d, sadden’d, far-off star,
Appearing and disappearing.

(Some parturition, rather—some solemn, immortal birth:
On the frontiers, to eyes impenetrable,
Some Soul is passing over.)