Kneading Play-doh into poetry

Presently, my brain needs to knead an idea,
inner muse a masseuse managing
to massage moments into meaning.
What odd finger-like folds apply pressure
to perception, pushing me to pause
and position my pathos like acupuncture pins,
releasing pain and apprehension.
My grey matter putty, throbbing Play-doh
pleasantly detached and incommunicado,
laying as a lump on the table.
I stare at it from above, my body a spectator
drooling in anticipation, awaiting instruction.
Does it know its name or recognize faces,
will the places it plasters grow any poems
or crap out instead and look like porridge?
Who can tell the fickle fancies of our ideas’ infancy
formed by freedom and the fits of five senses.