This sentence is not my idea

It is a string of bastardized

Phoenician symbols

That attempt to evoke

The image my mind has formed

Unknowingly, I have collected

Sign after sign, eventually

Learning how to link little ones together

Like long threads of a loom in action

Forming the shoddy rug shape

Of my composition

Like Aladdin's carpet, 

It is made up.

As his home is

A drunken amalgamation 

Of vastly different cultures

That the white and wide audience 

Already thought were just one thing

As if dried up sugarcane

And whangee were the same wood

My idea has just as much stupid potential

To reinforce ignorance

And hold it equal to knowledge.

So each new shoddy carpet I add

To my collection

Are like lectern lamps

Flickering with oil fueled flames

Hoping to illuminate my ideas

Until this mosaic of burning light

Can coalesce and hit my hands 

Like a lens and fly out

Of digits turned to cinema screens

Hitting this page

Like it was a set of human eyes

Glistening wet from the luminosity 

Of a seizure-warning-worthy display.

I fear the failure of a mistake,

Metaphors that miss their marks;

I fear

That my convoluted internal beliefs 

Can form momentary brilliance

Only for me and no one else.

That this film projector

I thought I could be

Is just a magic lantern show

Dancing upside down 

In a tent with no one watching

Waiting to sacrifice 

Itself with flames

Weightless embers

That dance like fireflies

Vapor and ash

Later gathered up and smeared

On the altar of my lexicon.