Stolen Words

Thoughts overflow and so we write, pouring hearts on the page, yearning for completion, dreaming of recognition. But there is balance to all things, with flow comes ebb, with progression comes regression.

Tumbling, falling, rolling out in ink, thoughts rushing, but then gathering in pools of black. The pen refuses to proceed. Push, write, push, write. No, can’t, no, can’t. Inspiration gone, words stolen. No investigation into their whereabouts. No posters on poles. No rewards to be doled out.

Sitting, staring, cursing. Shit. Shit and fuck. Shit, fuck, fuckballs. Silly, stupid mundane mind, prone to distraction and clutter. Self-doubt, a recalcitrant thief, the thief of always, stealing from all those endeavoring to turn a tale.

Stolen goods may be recovered. The life of the story repaired, allowed to flourish and grow, to be nourished, to exceed our grasp and live on its own.

But the thief lingers, always lingers, waiting to take our pain, our powerful pondering, our personal pontification, even our pages of palaver, to resell them on the black market of collective consciousness, so we can see our ideas, our words bloom into radiant glory, but only as extensions of another. Our child born from a stranger’s womb.