sitting around like dust
in dark rooms
dead skin, dead weight

a gold rush in my heart
one my habits won't permit
crippling writer's block

hardly seems worth my time
one that holds no
metaphoric water
doesn't do much for
the metaphysical mind

sometimes a new pen
is inspiration enough
sometimes I don't even
get out of bed
in the morning

sometimes all I need
is disaster, the sing-song
of your voice
your words of kindness
your distaste

sometimes that is
inspiration enough