I slid from bed
And stepped
On my words,
Spilled
All over the floor.

Each night,
Words flowed
Consistently.
Sometimes I awoke,
And scribbled
What I remembered
On a tablet
By the bed.

Sometimes
I slept soundly,
And the words
Just tumbled
To the floor.

This morning
There were
So many words
Piled on the floor,
That I almost
Tripped over them.

I stuffed my words
Into my pocket,
Hoping I could
Make sense of them
Later.

"My words," I sighed.
"I want so much from them."

I want my words
To be like a brook
No, not babbling,
But ever changing.
Cool and clear one day,
Not so clear the next.
Rushing, then still.
Words that grow.

I want my words
To change people.
Or at least
To make them think.
To offer strength
When the need arises.
And comfort and warmth
To lonely souls.

I pulled my words
From my pocket.
And spread them out
On the kitchen table,
Arranging them
And rearranging them.

As I worked
And pondered,
My cereal
Turned
To soggy mush.
But the words
Went
snap-crackle-pop.