i have an idea producer

in my mind, it rules

but the problem is

i don't know how to express them in words.

i lack imagination

it is by chance

am i still looking for an inspiration?

am i still etched in the commotion?

i can't reach the end of my confusion

i write things i still don't know

ideas aren't enough

i know

words should be tough

to do their part

but i can't seem to find the right applicants for the job

i collect ideas like

they are coins in the street

and worms in the soil

snow in winter

and garbages in a dumpster

easy peasy

no pain, no sweat

i come to them like a net

to fishes in the sea

to catch them afloat. you see

my mind explore

wander too much

it goes uncontrollable

flies beyond my reach

steps out of the limit

but after going through a lot

will lose their wings

or feet

and cuff them in

my memory

until they overlap

with the other and other

choke by the dust of old stories

hidden between the pages

stuck in my mind

locked inside

until new outshines them

bury in six feet

forgotten on their seat.