Ideas. Millions of ideas enter my head-
sometimes in sequence,
often all at once.
But they seldom see the light of day
and are left to be pruned away
with the neurons that gave rise to them.
The silent screams of characters never born or died
haunt me and rack me with frustration-
never to meet the eyes or imagination
of countless strangers now or beyond.
Though I may write a thousand poems I still dismay,
for what good is a writer
if he cannot produce one good story?