Out of my head.
Got it.
Down, in some physical form.
Memory, accessed externally.
Rather than.

Solely residing in my head.
For, only a moment.
Before gone. Write thoughts, to make them.
Real.

Unless written, they remain etherial.
Essential, and missing. Unable, too.

Make points. Make jokes. Make sense.

Speaking, more primitive.
Than writing.

Stumbling, over faulty recall.
That next word. Spoken tokens, embedded in grammar.
Queued up, within the mind. Around each thought. Then.

One wanders off.
Lost again.
In the dark unconscious.
Too shy to be said.