Unoriginality

Here I stand fraught with thoughts.
Thoughts that always add up to naughts.
Thoughts so fine.
Thoughts so not mine.
How can I write something divine?

Minutes and hours blurred in dimension.
Words and images rage without cohesion.
I need a rope to tie them down.
My confusion, I must drown.
Weighed down to the depth of the conscious.
Till the undercurrents of memory, stirs obnoxious.
Driftwood decayed and dying.
Creativity crippled and crying.

A flicker of something new
In the froth that my brain spewed.
Hidden by the stolen visions
Of genii of a higher division.
Applause for these ramblings I get.
Their sheer unoriginality I regret.

No one will forgive and every one will forget.