Poetry grows as a function of pain. Organized anguishes conquer your brain. Brilliance is a burden so rare, You can not ignore it, so it, you must bear. You will not sleep; no, you’re not allowed. You’re a slave to the page til it’s all written down. The night is long gone, but there’s no time to mourn: As the sun starts to rise, a young poem is born. You lament for lost sleep as you stumble around. Your heart in your ears is a deafening sound. The pain has subsided, but you’re well aware That though it’s appeased, it is always still there. Inspiration lurks, ever waiting to strike. It exclusively chooses a time you don’t like. Try as you might, you are bound to the pen, And after each respite, it comes back again.