Every word has been written in some dimension.
The stories have all been told and perhaps even scripted.
Words belong to each other as they bind the sentences of time.
Each word has lay in it’s sentence for all of existence, each
Potential has already rhymed.

How do I sing the Song that’s already been sang.
The crowds love the Oldies, I suppose.
Never been a crowd pleasing addiction pleaser.

The story begs to be told in one Reality, whereby
It has been told a hundred times in another Reality
And the Reader, the Listener is simply not interested,
Or actually they simply know the story so well that
It does not delight their story taste buds, let’s say.

Words scroll my mind, mouth and heart
All day every day. Putting them to page seems
Redundant to my own experience and seems
That all the words are already there for the
Receiver who is Ready.

Everywhere for those on the Frequency of those Words.