The thoughts pour our of my brain
And steam through the open air,
All on the tip of my tongue but never captured.

I reach out a searching, slender finger
An attempt to capture or excite them onto the paper
Or at worst, grab them around the neck and wrestle them onto the page.

Boredom burns in me like a smouldering pile of ashes,
Useless and existing but nothing else,
I have no use for it except that it disgusts me
And maybe that toxic reaction pushes me on.