A Train Of Thought

I haven't written in so long-

nothing real, at least.

Fragments of ideas,

black and white papers,

lay wasted around me.

It's like a feast.

Where the rich, they dine on creativity.

The poor, they want originality.

But they all dine within the same vicinity.

Being the rich, they want the intricate.

They want what's delicate, pretty,

something if scratched, is a ruin.

The poor, they want something different.

Something all their own, a vent,

a scratch would just add to the mere thought of it.

I am stuck between the middle, you see,

I want originality, creativity,

I want it dripping from this page-

MY viscinity. 

But we don't always get what we ask for, do we?

I want be a place Where the rich, they dine on creativity.

The poor, they want originality.

But they all dine within the same vicinity.

But I may never get there- if I haven't already.

You see, how I repeat the lines?

That's me taking it slow, I'm taking it steady.

I don't want to spring up the ladder

Unsupported- the delicate will shatter!

The vent will close and all imperfections clear!

What will become of us then, if we rush what never was?

If we rush what could have been- who said it wasn't ours?

Who says our potential isn't a goal we reach time and time again?

You see that, I'm rambling again.

Pulling at strings that are begnin.

You aren't listening, are you- do I even make sense?

Maybe I am poor- these are all vents.

Could I be rich, though, could this all be intricate?

I may never know, and neither will you.

I'll bet you didn't even read this far, did you?

I hope you find your path, your place, whoever you are.

I'll just go back to what I have,

A paper, a pencil, and an idea jar.