Ever thought your inside a simulation
that your reality is constantly changing
Your narrative written for  a certain purpose
Your heartbreaks
the pains youve  endured in the name of life
Was nothing but a programmed reality

Ever thought of the people you've crushed while climbing up
Because of that pain you caused her
She went and cried in that office corner
But he came and offered, sympathy, empathy
Whatever she needed
And her love story begun because of your crush

Ever thought the misery you keep experiencing is your own doing
that your on the verge of damnation cause you want to
Because the puzzling emotions are only here
Cause you want them to be here
Holding onto illusive memory
that once was, but isn't anymore

Ever thought of visiting Berlin, I think we all love Berlin
Or maybe the pyramids of Egypt
What about Paris, the food and the warm friendly folks
Can't forget Abraham Lincoln, we all have a little bit of linc in us
Brazil and samba dance, that, I wouldn't miss

Ever thought of writing a poem about writing a poem
Spilling your gut but in an eccentric way
Puzzling thoughts about everything
like this poem ever thought it'll ever exist
if it's even  a poem

I don't want to be content with what I know
I don't want to wake up to that regular normal life
The predicatable pattern
The usual circle

I want to to challenge my reality
My ever constant changing perception
Expound on my imagination

I don't want to settle for that regular normal life
I don't want to live and not taste the waters
I don't want to be limited by "this is how it's always been"

I want to deeply and empathetically  analyze
Transform the meaning of reason
Offer a vacuum of doubt instead of acceptance
Be critical in our dawning reality

I want to listen, truly listen and observe
I want to know why you believe what you belive
I want to think

The excerpt below is from an interview Philip Roth gave to Daniel Sandstrom, the cultural editor at Svenska Dagbladet, for publication in Swedish translation in that newspaper, and in its original English in the Book Review of the New York Times (March 1, 2014).

It was laid out in normal article (paragraph) form, but I chose to re-present here, line by line, sentence by sentence, for it struck me as I first read it, as a prose poem, and a source of inspiration for me.  But then I realized, I could not improve upon his words, just risk diminishing them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The struggle with writing is over” is a recent quote. Could you describe that struggle, and also, tell us something about your life now when you are not writing?

Everybody has a hard job.
All real work is hard.
My work happened also to be undoable.
Morning after morning for 50 years,
I faced the next page
defenseless and unprepared.
Writing for me was a feat of self-preservation.
If I did not do it, I would die.

So I did it.
Obstinacy, not talent, saved my life.
It was also my good luck that
happiness didn’t matter to me
and I had no compassion for myself.
Though why such a task
should have fallen to me I have no idea.
Maybe writing protected me
against even worse menace.

Now?
Now I am a bird sprung from a cage
instead of (to reverse Kafka’s famous conundrum)
a bird in search of a cage.
The horror of being caged has lost its thrill.
It is now truly a great relief,
something close to a sublime experience,
to have nothing more
to worry about than death.
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http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/16/books/review/my-life-as-a-writer.html?_r=0