Poetry grows as a function of pain.
Organized anguishes conquer your brain,
And drown your joy in a river of doubt,
With a poetic structure you must write about.
Brilliance is a burden so rare,
You can not ignore it, so it, you must bear.
The sorrow is swelling, not baggage, but freight,
It demands that it, you articulate.
Agony restless, it calls to the pen;
The cyclone in your mind is starting to spin.
You will not sleep; no, you’re not allowed.
You’re a slave to the page til it’s all written down.
Your hands may tremble, your brain may burn,
But you will not rest until the last word.
Insanity replaces your sense of time.
Seconds and minutes dissolve into rhyme.
One o'clock, two o'clock, five o'clock, eight,
It has grown quite early--or is it quite late?
The night is long gone, but there’s no time to mourn:
As the sun starts to rise, a young poem is born.
The inspiration is gone, and leaves in its wake,
The pain that it somehow has still failed to take,
And still even worse, a hollow chasm,
Where the inspiration and pain had just been.
You lament for lost sleep as you stumble around.
Your pulse in your ears is a deafening sound--
Like thunder that fills you enough that you pour,
Like drugs that aren't enough anymore.
The pain has subsided, but you’re well aware
That though it’s appeased, it is always still there.
Now, it lies dormant, in a slumber apart,
A luxury you forfeited for art.
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.
