the idea was not my own—
though i claimed, convinced myself its creator—
planted, seeded through a reluctant transfer
of words, processed from formed thought sans filter
received through the subconscious.
the idea could have been my own, the origins of
originality sparked within the lobes
fired from my own thinking into words shaped
true to form with choice, though
really manipulated by mediation
snuck through the vision of consciousness
i call mine.