this is a poem that fell out of my brain

As my head leaned over a new creation,
heavy with watercolors of thought
pooling in the palette,
my neck creaking and aching,
the idea spilled out,
quite unceremoniously,
and splashed onto the table
of books and paper and pens
and Chinese Black Tea.

It congealed into a 
turbulent little mess -
streamers of vibrant indigo
bursts of orchid
dusty pastels of celadon,
all choked out by a creeping darkness,
not black, not gray, but dark - 
a murky opaqueness, 
giving this thought on the table
an uneasy and unintelligible form.

I didn't know what to do with the thing,
and wasn't quite sure of where it came from.
I tilted my head, now massively empty,
and squinted bleary-eyed through my specs.

"What I am supposed to do with you?"

"Oh please!" it said, to my great shock.
"Tell this story! It was so loud in there
and I thought you'd never hear me. I thought
you'd keep your defenses up so well
that I'd be trapped in the scrum
waiting behind a long line of decent
refined and presentable items
forever!"

"You're a mess" I said,
"I can't hardly shape you into coherency.
What will everyone else think?
How will you make them feel?
How will you reflect on me? 
You belong to me, you know,
no one else needs this,
it's better if you just simmer."

"No! Unthinkable! Irreversible! Unsilenceable!
Irrepressible! 
I am you
authentic and real
and necessary
real talk
fiercely honest
no-nonsense
battering on
the ears of the deaf
shouts for the dumb
blazing light
for the blind
and a middle finger
for those who don't
listen to me
don't put me back!"

"There there" I said
as I picked it up in my hand.
It was heavy.
"Maybe some day. When they're all ready.
When I'm ready."
It left a mark on the paper,
a scattering of words and phrases,
a fresh dark deep ink 
bleeding through the pages below.

"Fine" it said.
"I'll find a way back in."
It melted into a pool of 
dark water, flowing out of
the palm of my hand and
splashing onto the paper,
blurring the emblazoned words.

I turned on the news.
A sexy woman was talking about whatever.
The crawl said something about
dead black people in Africa and Carolina
as the ink and tears dried.