When I was young
I would sit on the toilet
and tell myself stories

When I needed to go
sometimes it took 30 minutes
not because of constipation
but for prolonged 
and the need to discover
a story’s end

My sister made fun of me
“What are you going to say next?” 
She whispered 
through the door

Then she would cackle 
a loud obnoxious laugh
that stunted my story
and tightened my bowels

I told so many stories then
Needing every word

I had this red guitar
And composed my own little song

Racing to the bathroom
right before bed
my sister
was always first

Sitting on the stairs
A new word
came to me

Sometimes waiting
or being last
allows us to do something else

when we stop competing
we start creating

And new words 
flood our consciousness
like specs of gold
only we can hold

And the world does not understand
where our treasure
comes from 

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