Brain Traffic Jam

I had an idea in the shower,

lost it finding a towel,

found another making coffee,

now there's four of them somehow.

One says write me.

One says build me.

One says drop everything tonight.

And the fifth one just walked in like it fucking owns the

place. (hahaha)

My brain needs a waiting room.

Take a number. Have a seat.

Nobody gets to become

my entire personality this week.

That's the rule.

I made it yesterday.

I've already broken it three times.

TOO MANY IDEAS

and every one says NOW.

They're kicking holes inside the ceiling trying to fucking get out.

TOO MANY IDEAS.

I need another head.

I close my eyes to go to sleep and open six businesses

instead. (hoo!)

There's one in my phone.

Two on paper. Three I swore I'd remember.

I remembered none. Then while looking for the first one I accidentally

invented another. Fantastic. Very efficient.

Completely useless. (shhh)

People talk about writer's block.

Sounds peaceful.

What's that like?

Do you just sit there?

Nothing yelling?

Nothing multiplying?

Jesus Christ.

Send brochure.

This one could work.

No—THAT one could work.

Wait, combine those two.

That's either brilliant

or an expensive fucking disaster.

Write it down.

Where? Anything!

My notes app looks like evidence collected from a lunatic.

TOO MANY IDEAS, not enough fucking Tuesday.

Every thought wants a future,

every future wants today.

TOO MANY IDEAS, all dressed like emergencies.

I don't need inspiration— I need traffic control inside of me.

Okay.

New system.

If it's good, write it down.

If it's great, start it.

If it's insane— Apparently cancel dinner.

That's not a system.

That's exactly how we got here.

But every once in a while

one of these ridiculous things refuses to leave.

Keeps tapping. Keeps talking.

Keeps showing up

while I'm doing something else.

And eventually I look at it:

Fine.

You win.

Let's see what the fuck you are.

TOO MANY IDEAS, and one just jumped the line.

Don't know why this one's different,

but the bastard won't be quiet.

TOO MANY IDEAS. Tomorrow brings another ten.

I'm trying to finish this song— and I just thought of the

next one again. No.

Write it down. NO.

Write it down!

Fine! What's the title?

...oh, that's fucking good.