novel thoughts

sometimes, my mind feels like a novel
in third person (of course)
not high-brow enough to be literary fiction,
a work that should be littered with heavy criticism
so that it can be edited for its next draft.

only it’s published while it’s written;
all i can do is watch
and maybe narrate the myriad ways
the next chapter can start

but there aren’t really chapters
or segments
or breaks—
just streams of
overlapped consciousnesses,
clawing and fighting
for space on the page.

and all i can do is watch
in third person (of course)
because even though it’s my own mind,
the novel is in control.