.
The idea.
By David Milligan-Croft.
.
I am an idea.
.
A series of electrical impulses
between the synapses
of one mediocre mind
among 8 billion others.
.
I become words scrawled on a page
or uttered from a mouth.
I gather components
to make me manifest.
.
From the detritus
of long-extinct species;
rotting food, plant life,
faeces.
.
Animal, vegetable and mineral;
I am composed
of the decomposed taxonomy
from the graveyards of landfill.
.
Fridges and flatscreens,
mobiles and tablets.
(The type you swallow,
and the type that swallows you.)
.
Atoms and molecules
converging and coalescing
like mercury,
until I am born.
.
Perhaps I am a rocket ship,
that can traverse distant galaxies.
Or the long-dreamed of child,
or a little fidget spinner.
.
The form of the concept is irrelevant.
What matters is,
I exist.
When once, I did not.
.
.
David Milligan-Croft
Thereisnocavalry 
I’ve give you more credit than that
Not sure I understand?
Some of the lines seemed to me like you were putting you down. I may have misinterpreted them.
Ah, I see. I was trying to write the poem from the idea’s point of view, rather than my own. But I see what you mean. It’s not very clear.
Sorry my comment muddied the waters.
Not at all. It’s good, constructive observation. It now makes me wonder if it needs the first line at all, ‘I am an idea’?
Awesome. I can hear the conversation my dad would have started if he could read your post. I win – reading your post and hearing his thoughts!
Thank you Kelly Louise. I’m glad it brought a happy ‘idea’ to mind. 🙂
From one mediocre mind to another, nice work. But you might get yourself kicked out of the mediocre club.
The mediocre club is moderately underrated. (Thanks LC.)