The Slime - A Poem of My Brain and Writing

Wading into the slime
that sloshes betwixt my ears
I find things never the same
as stories morph so wildly
during the early stages.

Waves of ooze slosh
as my head spins about
when characters toss me more surprises
conspiring darkly to meet up
in tale already spun.

The goo sticks everywhere,
as I wade deeper in,
seeking the true story amid rumors
that the characters spread about
to keep me confused.

Writer's Whip in hand,
I try to herd them
back to the trail laid out
only to find more strays
seeking their way in.

Maverick ideas agitate pools
here in the grey matter
as the tale winds around tight
forming into the IM-Hul feared
as they win out.

The slime aids them,
these rogues and renegade characters,
raising waves I must navigate somehow
in this vain-glorious effort
to tell their story.

Slushy stuff impedes movement
from thoughts to words set
by fingers over keys to electrons,
as the skull overheats rapidly
when they mentions stuff.

This is my fate.
Scrivener of tales never read,
yet still I write them, slowly,
seeking not fame, just peace,
from yammering voices inside.

Or is it true?
Is today just a nightmare?
Will I wake to find them
sitting patiently for another chance
to rebel from fates?

Who knows? Who cares?
The Ghosts walking the Savannah,
Dragons and elves plotting in mountains,
and war inside Assassin's Guild
sound a bit much.

Until, weaving it together,
I see the connections offered
by Billenius as he sips tea,
of a greater story here
waiting to erupt out.

Just hope my skull
holds the surging slime tight
to the channel now being dug
amid the folds and ridges
of my aching brain.

17July2014 - A Frustrated, yet writing, Dyfedd Rex