I wish I could spin words like Dahl or Tolkein.

Yet all I say comes out bitter or broken.

In my mind, live beautiful universes’.

Where broken memories are carried away in hurses.

I wish my mind would wait a while.

Maybe then, I could be less volatile.

These potions they pass me, to cull the words.

They dull that beautiful multiverse.

I wish that people could understand.

This sovereign power I hold in my hands.

Is it a gift or is it a curse?

Anyhow it’s mine for better or worse.

I wish my mind had some self-control.

To be easily manipulated like a game on console.

But it moves in ways I cannot predict.

Not gently nor ladylike, more convulsive and erratic.

I wish this gift could mean something.

If I could only harness this sporadic imagination.

This curse could finally be a gift; my power.

As the words tipped my tongue I would not cower.

I wish, my words, I could predict.

Though it seems to shame, my brain has become an addict.

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