Where do these idea come from...

Recently my words of the written have been flinging off my fingertips with relative easy. Free verse cursed with a theme that I have no control over. My writing appear as if written by someone else of a much brighter intellect. The wisdom of the words brings brightened ideas even to me as I reread what I have written. Or, apparently someone else has written. Poetic essays pick apart my thoughts and dissect them into digestable ideas that I can manipulate into constructive theories that enable me to better navigate through the perfect storm of life. My brain vein pulsates out one after another, word after word. I just sit, watch, read, and with a slight revise enjoy the parade of prose. Thoughts stop for others, but not me. It would be a relief if they did and I can't imagine they will. I give in to the creative only because there is no alternative. Others will argue differently, but they are wrong. Obviously people with few ideas and fewer validated opinions that I won't waste my time on highlighting. Not to say that I am any sort of intellectual. Although, the more I write, the more repugnant the pretentious I smell. My own writings at times are over my own head. I try to understand what I write, but it would be arrogant and pig headed of me to say that I understand everything that I have written. I prefer simple talk, with complex people. A way where I can listen and learn without the pitfalls of my own stupidity to get in the way.