on the bullet-proof-ness of Ideas

i used to worry
that an idea could die out with a people

but there are so many of us
and though we often pretend to be unique and individual,
our thoughts are nothing special - as long as there are people, an idea will find someone to host it. Especially today, none of my thoughts are original. If all of the humans who think the same ideas as I were to perish in an Instant, the ideas would independently come to others, though perhaps they would use different words.

Today,
instead of feeling like a fountain or a spring which channels and gives shape to my meanings,
the ink from my pen draws little cages on my paper.

I peer down at ideas
bound to twisted black lines
-the page becomes a prison-
and wonder what I've done