The Imagination Jungle

My story is lost in the jungles of my mind,
Where no person may venture of the 'realistic' kind.

It's a place covered in vines and prickles and thorns,
Where leaves and flowers form when ideas are born.
There are caves and chasms and a towering volcano,
Where new stories bubble and pop and boil,
Until they're thoroughly mulled over and ready to explode,
As a brand new story just burning to be told.

And don't be alarmed when skeletons you find,
In a deep ravine or dangling from a vine.
Those are the stories that didn't quite make it,
With plots or characters that just didn't fit.

But let me tell you, the animals that parade around,
From whom all the poetry and music abound,
Are truly a beautiful sight to be behold,
In the Imagination Jungles that never grow old.

And aha! I have found it! Buried in a tree,
That idea I filed away is finally free.
Now I can get to work and my little jungle I'll leave.
Only to return when I'm in dire need,
Of a story, a poem, a little excitement.
Or just to entertain myself when other thoughts grow silent.