Dio's Short Works

This is simply a place for me to share any short bit of writing that I don't feel deserves it's own topic. I'm not to experienced with short writing, and my first post is going to be a poem. It is, I believe, the first poem I have ever written because I wanted to, and not because it was an assignment of some kind in school.

The Stream of Consciousness

Whatever comes to my mind.
Whatever comes to my mind.
Whatever comes, to MY mind.
A blanket. A blanket of snow coating the frost bitten landscape. A single set of footprints leading away from a scorched, blackened city. Would you trade, the stifling heat of this heartless metropolis, for the bitter numbness of isolation?
Nothing comes to my mind.
Nothing comes to my mind.
Why won't anything come to my mind?
These thoughts. Bottled. Stagnated. Soured. Hidden in darkened cellars.
People tell me to share them. To bring them into the light. To share them with friends, and to never let them become spoiled.
But what does it matter, for my thoughts are infinite, and singular, and bland, and monotonous, and sacred and why would anyone care what comes to my mind?