Conscience

Do you ever wonder where my ideas come from? I can't tell you, because I don't know. Give me a pen and some paper. Then my thoughts just flow. Somehow I write about things I don't feel. But when I write them down, they seem to be real. Death, suicide, sadness, and crime. I wonder why these thoughts cloud my mine. The answer to that I might never find. I guess I have another personality or something, that's thinking for me.

Do you ever say something that doesn't sound right? Well that's how I write. One day I start a poem. The next I finish with a life story. Creepy isn't it. How I can just write down anything and people understand me. You can say I have a gift. But I didn't ask for it. When I write I block out everything else. Forgetting my surroundings helps. So I close my eyes and drift off to my little world. When I get back I have a story to tell.

Do you ever believe there's someone living in your brain? I didn't before, but now I do. How else do you explain my thoughts and ideas. I'm not a soul from the past. But why do I write like I am. For some reason no one knows my mind and how it operates. And I'm pretty sure you'll be happy not knowing who I really am. Because I will never be able to tell you who that is. If you must know, it's my conscience.