streams of conscience
i am a voice
no more
or less
i scream
and cry
and wonder why
in increments of
self pity
like any other
empty is the shell
when driven by
its own volition
still
in late night
day dream
when all is quiet
that seems important
to my selfishness
the quiet voice
drifts down
from lofty lairs
of the real creator
when i am tired
spent
bent
and fractured
from the daylight
he speaks to me
of more important things
than rings to bling
my molding is just
bubble gum and clay
that sticks between the creases
of a shoe
and ruins a person's pretty carpet
yet, he deems me
worthy of a touched heart
and gives me music
in this barren clank and rattle world
and when i listen
he creates in me
a poem
that travels forth
to ears that
search for
streams of conscience.