The Dam

In my canoe, I vigorously breaststroke upstream.
Avoiding the Panthers on the muddy banks and the dung thrown by the monkeys in the trees.
I reach my hand into the river to call my friends, the pink river dolphin, to me.
Racing them to my mark and stroking their friendly melon heads at our comraderic competitive finish.
For I have made it to the dam.
This dam I come to whenever I have a pen in my clutch.
It without fail, always bursts, drowning me with ideas from elsewhere.
I welcome this ideal suffocation. For it strengthens my character as well as my mind and heart.
I have made it to the dams face and I stretch my arm.
I grab my pen as the dam breaks, inundating my page with unheard of ideas.