Somewhere, through these two hundred pounds of chocolate milk and chicken strips,
lies an idea.
And while it's different every time I put it down on pen and paper,
the method is the same.
Draft.
Write your heart out.
Trash it.
Draft again.
Write your heart out even more.
Perfection.
I've learned that there is no use in going into this blank battlefield with a plan.
The end result is always different than the intention.

Sometimes, the paper grabs me,
and my left hand cannot control itself.
Every possible thought which cannot be voiced
is finally shouted from the bottom of a loose piece of paper.

I push my nose into the pen and paper combo so hard,
that sometimes I wonder if I'll catch something from the fumes.

My voice is not much louder than that of a baby snake.
But I seek to be the most violent of all known acids,
and my words will flow through your bloodstream like
serpentine venom.

My ideas are quick to fade, and fly like birds.
To be seen in a moment
gone the next.

Yet then there are those who won't leave me alone.
They pound and bang on my chest
demanding to be let out.
They yell at my soul for freedom,
a right I can't deny.

Somewhere in a room full of papers and boxes,
books waiting to be read,
two hundred pounds of chocolate milk and chicken strips
grabs a pens, and vomits out an idea waiting to be written.
Drafted.
Trashed.
Then written again.
Perfection.