Thought Compost

Everybody's made of different stuff, Some are all about laughs, others pain. Whatever it is, we all have enough. I'm made of words, though the majority of them are unheard. If I don't write I start to fade into a calvacade of thoughts with bombs and horrors. I gotta get rid of my steam on paper - doesn't do much good just to dream 'cause it'll catch up with me sooner or later. Sometimes, in bed, I can't get to sleep at night 'cause the words in my head need release through what I write. Now if I herd them from my mind and all the way down my pen they generally don't bother me again. Otherwise it's like I'm trying to hold onto a raging bull, who's tossing me about on his horns, while I only have a rope to pull. No spears or weapons of any kind! Can you imaging the terror creeping up behind? I don't control the words - I'd say it's the other way round. Sometimes I've gotta sift through Thought compost, or dig a hole in Imagination's ground before I find anything worthwhile to say. But hey, it's not often! Mostly they march to the sound of a beating drum, and I have no control over the speed at which they come. They're supposed to be MY troops! Instead they've got ME jumping through hoops - doing handstands and other silly stuff. I don't think they'll ever learn when Enough is Enough... But that's okay. For all my complaints, I don't want them to go away (could use a few restraints though!). If I had to choose something with which to surround myself, it'd have to be words and language; Not the sentimental treasures on the shelf. Food for thought. Maybe a poetry sandwich, maybe roast beef on rye... I'll write my dreams on paper and then toss them into the sky.