The highway of my thoughts run as if it was rush hour. 

Each idea has its own route,

Unmindful of where others are destined.

The ramp streams for miles.

Is there no room for each thought to squeeze in? 

Wait, a spot has cleared.

Alone, they move anxiously ahead

With their destiny the only concern.

Within seconds, the space is swallowed in the mob,

  Unused and forgotten.

Once again, the ramp streams for miles.

Is there no room for each thought to squeeze in?