Out of my head.
Down, in some physical form.
Memory, accessed externally.
Solely residing in my head.
For, only a moment.
Before gone. Write thoughts, to make them.
Unless written, they remain etherial.
Essential, and missing. Unable, too.
Make points. Make jokes. Make sense.
Speaking, more primitive.
Stumbling, over faulty recall.
That next word. Spoken tokens, embedded in grammar.
Queued up, within the mind. Around each thought. Then.
One wanders off.
In the dark unconscious.
Too shy to be said.