thirty-eight

Fictionary

When my stream of conciousness turns into a trickle
I find myself in a bit of a pickle
I turn to wine and I turn to beer
But they make me tired and feeling quite queer
I'd read a book but the words swim around
Or listen to music and in it I'd drown
My mind becomes sticky and stiff like a dumpling
My throat gets tight and dry with a lump in
And I'm supposed to write a thesis for a Masters Degree?
Why does this shit always happen to me??

I wish I could make up quotes and words
As easy as songs are made up by birds
Spin a line of authority
To make everybody look up to me
Become an expert unquestioned and proud
To speak and be listened to without being loud
With quiet confidence indifference I'd kill
And change peoples minds like a head-tripping pill
I'd tingle spines and goosepimple skin
And without noticable pressure all would give in

But my streams of conciousness reduce to a trickle
And my reasoning seems pathetic and fickle
I'd love to spin a flamboyant line
And all of the audience would be mine
But all the grace and finesse I lack
To make the greatest fiction seem a fact