I can feel my cranium cracking,
Hear a high G ring in my ears.
I can't stop my stomach churning
But I can still hold back my tears.
I can't keep my head on straight
But dreams won't take me hostage.
Instead of sleep's limitless estate,
I'm in pain's cruel, ****** cage.

I wonder how others like their music
While I try to listen to every element of a song
Dissecting the cacophony of sounds
Appreciating what I didn't hear before
Do they dance when I lie in the dark?
Do they just listen or sing along?

I wonder what stories others enjoy
While I read a book over and over again
Excitedly the first time, rushing to the end
Slowly the second, savoring every sentence.
Do they like fiction? True stories?
Do they like to tell them or to listen?

I wonder (with amusement) what others do with their ideas
While I put them into the poems I write
Cursing my vocabulary for failing me
Struggling to find words every **** time
Do they post them on social media? Write in journals?
Do they keep them in their own minds?

Are they like me somehow?

As a writer,
does it matter that someone else
already thought my thoughts
before I did?
Or said what I'm about to say?
Or felt these emotions
making the words flow
out of me?
My thoughts aren't unique,
original,
or groundbreaking
but does that matter?
I don't mean them any less.
They are as real to me
as they were real to
the ones who thought them first,
the people who made history,
and even writers long gone.
They are my thoughts
as much as they were theirs.