I've got hundreds of these,
I can't tell you how many times
I've crawled through the claustrophobic grey corridors
Of my brain, rounded a corner and saw fields of these
Glittering things, firmly set in the face of the rocks.
Melodies, poems, good deeds, novels, plays,
degrees, travel plans...
You can't use your fingers on them.
They won't budge.
I know, because I pass by everyone of them
And give them a little tug.
They aren't going anywhere.
I've brought tools at times;
I've even made progress on a few of them
But I ussually decided half-way through
That they weren't worth the work anyway
I mean...I'm full of bright ideas.
I've got hundreds of 'em.
And they sure are pretty to look at.