Stream of Consciousness.

There’s something ethereal, ever so peculiar,

When consciousness spills into a stream—

A rush of complexities that drown and lift,

Engulf your being,

Making melody, making songs, making art and poetry.

*

Stream of consciousness—

A genre that stills my restless soul.

I express freely, yet weigh my words carefully,

Taking you on a journey.

A wild ride, that keeps you wanting more.

*

Shall we?

Shall I speak?

Will you listen?

*

I take you down the stream—

Of my ADHD and autism, entwining and diverting.

But come along with me,

For this melody—don’t you see?

*

I’ve laid my mind bare on the floor—

Histories, love so full, truth and lies,

But you close the door.

*

Let’s dance between these extended lines,

Make memories while the words spill on and on.

Shall we stream?

Shall we let consciousness break through?

*

Sylvia Plath carved the way,

Whispered through pages,

lingered in my bones.

Yet somehow,

this rhythm was always mine—

Perhaps that’s why I hear her when I write.

*

It ain’t my lines

if they ain’t real,

If the words don’t thrum,

desperate to break free,

If they don’t beg you

to dig deeper.

*

Because once, I didn’t know how to organise lines and rhymes—

Not like Shakespeare did effortlessly,

Not like the amazing writers on Substack or Vocal.

I was overflowing, distorted,

But this stream of misaligned rhythm welcomed me in,

And I ain’t never leaving.