The Rot

There is a rot in my brain,

Of ideas left to stew—

Good ones I’ve forgotten,

Or found too hard to do.

They bubble up occasionally,

Then get smashed back down.

Not because I hate them,

Just too many hang around.

What should I do?

Could one make me rich—

With money to fix my problems,

Or would it be a money pit?

It feels like a silly problem;

I hate to see the waste.

It is the rot—

Of an unused space.

Could it be I’m just afraid

Of being rejected—

Or laughed at,

Because I am defective?