Nov 2013
my day is naught but toil,
my night is naught but strife.
in my sleep i turn and toss
whilst a dream reflects my life.
why then does a smile chase these lips
and a twinkle tease these eyes?
are my furrowed brow and fists a-clenched
contentment in disguise?
Joy intrudes on every bitter moment;
joy heals wrathful thoughts and wounded ken;
joy thrusts forget on all my hurt
and joy gifts vigor to my pen.
O God, your chronic cheer may end,
see, your joy is hampered so.
your servant, i, will stretch it farther,
where it wills to break i cannot know.
my night is naught but strife.
in my sleep i turn and toss
whilst a dream reflects my life.
why then does a smile chase these lips
and a twinkle tease these eyes?
are my furrowed brow and fists a-clenched
contentment in disguise?
Joy intrudes on every bitter moment;
joy heals wrathful thoughts and wounded ken;
joy thrusts forget on all my hurt
and joy gifts vigor to my pen.
O God, your chronic cheer may end,
see, your joy is hampered so.
your servant, i, will stretch it farther,
where it wills to break i cannot know.
I'd like to know the science of inspiration, although I'm afraid that the facts will be straightforward and obvious. This much I know: strong emotion elicits either the worst or the best of whatever your talent is. This is the only poem I've been able to really put work into these days, simply thanks to lack of energy. I might want to use a few of these words or rhymes in later poems, but they're not amazing.
Strife is virtually unavoidable. It's unhealthy and absurd, but we'll never be able to get past it.
Live, love and let,
--Ace
Strife is virtually unavoidable. It's unhealthy and absurd, but we'll never be able to get past it.
Live, love and let,
--Ace
(19/M/Minnesota)
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