On Never Songs, Poems, and Other Assorted Stories

I have watched my mind countless times so I know what will happen and it is terribly repetitive and dull. If I do not capture
A few bits of the stories that flow past on the
Narrative train in my brain, then poor
Old me will be forced to face some historical
Difficulty. Supposedly historical. Allegedly fixed in the past. Or if I let the story go my cerebral
Symphony may sing lyrics to me, but that will still only be
A short advert before old dramas repeat, if
I let them. That time I was grumpy
Because she wouldn’t kiss me, for instance. What’s the story right now though? What will I be capturing as I don’t
Fancy singing or remembering. O it’s an exciting one! Something about…
A pot of gold, it seems! Only it’s not at the end of a rainbow, but in
Some fog, maybe? Permanently lost
And unattainable; forever
Floating off and being chased after, it is. But I wonder who by—I cannot quite see the protagonist? It’s a clever concept
All the same. A funny story! Wherever do these things come from? I’m annoyed about that kiss again now.
Life could have been very different if she’d just agreed! Or if I’d have not been
So grumpy? I don’t know anything about that story now though
Do I: I wish I was stuck at singing. Although I do get to capture
Some history as it goes past sometimes, just as it starts
To repeat itself over and over, louder and louder. Like the never kiss here, I suppose!
When I get the chance to do this—to see
And remember and then write about it—that history
Doesn’t come past again; and I don’t have to go back to find or finish it either: it stays
Happily on the page, incomplete and settled,
Just like all the other stories out there. At other times the stories
Drift past without needing to be chased or captured at all
By me. By anyone! They just float off
And away instead unsung forever forgotten
In the fog; but this takes
A lot of practice and that can be terribly repetitive
And dull. Though it’s like I was never grumpy now! And as if
She had never rejected me. It’s all left on the page instead; I feel
Nothing of it. O and wouldn’t it be terribly repetitive and dull—and ironic;
Difficult?—for me
To continue chasing that gold… old
Story here now too, because why dredge whatever that is up.