These days I dredge the past
for the kind of pain
that used to drive
my words. Heartache
was the fuel of poetry
and I drove those lines
like a madman.
But, now that tank runs dry,
which, I guess, is a good
thing really.
Now lucky in love, but wasn't always. So why does it seem so much easier to write good poetry from the bad sh^t that plagues us than to record the good that happens?