Brain Dead
By: Mendelssohn

Summary: This is a very short and random poem about ideas.

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Ideas
Where on Earth do they come from?
From neurons connecting?
From some catalyst taken up by our senses?
From randomness?
From Chaos?
From nowhere?

I try to write
about something,
even anything!
Nothing comes out.

Sometimes, I have one
right in my hand.
Still, it manages to escape my clenched grasp
Floating away into infinity.
They escape me
when I need them most.

Therefore, I write this poem
having no ideas at all.
No ideas about what to write.
All that occupies my mind
is now -




e
m
p
t
i
n
e
s
s


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Ummmm... Do you think its quite random? This is my 'playing around with writing.' Reviews would be appreciated even to say that it was extremely queer. Thank you!