I see just a hint of inspiration hanging there
Tantalizing me beyond despair
a vision in the fog
could be a prince, could be a frog
Have I the curiosity to care?

For I'm not sure a poets life's for me
Full of pain, angst and constant agony
Paint my heart upon my sleeve
for the tales that I weave
and publish for the whole world here to see

Could it be though that I suffer for my craft
or has my poetry become my own life raft
am I burned because I write
whether morning noon or night
or am I doomed to be consumed in its backdraft.