The Pool of Thorns

Thoughts were never yours. They just bled through you first.

If thoughts were really yours, they wouldn’t leave you.
They wouldn’t rot in your throat while someone else gives them a voice.
They wouldn’t show up on the radio sung by a stranger who sounds like he’s been living in your ribcage.

But they do.
Every day.

They tell you your thoughts are your own.
Bullshit.

They come like weeds. Like cigarette smoke through a cracked window. Like a pool of thorns bleeding into streams, and every stream runs somewhere.

You think you invented it? That phrase. That confession. That ache.
You didn’t.
It was already out there, whispering through somebody else’s fever.
You just happened to grab it before it cut loose.

And if you don’t hold on? If you let it slip?
The pool doesn’t dry up. It just finds another mouth to bleed through.

The first time I heard So Far Away it felt like a robbery.
Like someone had broken into my head in the middle of the night, stolen my ache, and sold it back to me wrapped in guitar distortion.
When he sang it, I thought—wait, that was mine.
My thought. My wound. My prayer.
And now it belonged to the world.
Already sung. Already sold.
Already gone.

That’s the truth.
If you don’t act on a thought, someone else will.
They’ll write it. Sing it. Fuck it into being.
And you’ll be left empty, clutching at a ghost that never cared about you.

Because first means nothing.
Only the act matters. The blood on the page. The echo in the room. The life in the thing.

The pool doesn’t care who drinks.
Only who swallows.

// Scorpio Veil