I can turn off my editing brain,
I can turn off and let it go.
let the words come as they wish,
unedited, smoothly flow.
I can turn up the right side
and turn down the left;
I can dive into my dreamscape,
from a fully imagined cleft.
I can spin in ravaging circles
as the timer counts on down,
I can think about everything
as the world spins spinning 'round
I can list all of the reasons,
I can argue every cause,
I can plot out my own visions,
I can wander without pause.
I can turn my lonely circle,
as I walk within the crowd;
I can hunt and peck for answers,
inside me or out-loud.
I can do all these things,
but I can't turn it off.
my brain never stops working,
never stops tearing, never coughs.
I can rhyme to the end,
as apocalypse comes and goes;
I can keep the words on flying,
I can't make the words repeat,
I can't make them go away,
I can only hold them in
until I turn another page.
If I can't wave them away,
if they never stop,
I can't make them come again,
can't make them restart.
I can only blunder on,
through the drought and the rain,
I can only turn up the volume,
and pay attention to what they say.
there's a voice in my head always whispering,
and a thought always wanting to be heard.
there's something that won't be silenced,
not owned by dragons or by birds.
there's a voice that's calling me
to spin the words that I think,
every shout, every grumble,
every patter, every plink.
so when I set my fingers dancing,
there's a dam that opens wide
to a lake that's always filling,
while I'm drowning deep inside.