The Writers Woe
Every writer is slave to inspiration
We eat for eatings sake-
Our famishment enhanced by our meal.
Begging for succor from the written word-
Yelling in the night-
Some obeisance from obsession;
The image of Narcissus in our minds,
Verse in a pool basin
Reflections without inflection,
An understudy who doesn’t understand-
Our less dexterous hands miss the mark.
Defeated, we withdraw from the world
Hermits in a classroom-
A part of the dead poets society-
Sound and fury and signifiers
Trying to drown out the idiots calls.
We are made and unmade by the words we use-
Etched in the annals of our minds-
Leeching the marrow from our bones
We are thin, thin, so very thin
And our eyes only see the obelus
Above the stone carved name
“I am Providence”
If creativity demands it of me
O, then take it all-my body and blood
Fog and letters shrouds the castle,
Sharpened teeth teach the prodigy to breath-
Though it is wasted breath, wasted life, and wasted death-
Take a bite and drain me
Bring color to vampyr lips.
Living thoughts through dead sheets-
A rolled boulder over a cave,
Eyes never see the exertion or clamoring
Only the resultant work of a dead man
At his rotted writing desk.
His burnt drafts and crossed out lines
Pile up around him-
His phoenix rises
From the ashes of a cigarette,
His revelations epiphanate
From the bottom of a bottle,
His ecclesiastical eclectics
From his repentance on Sunday morn,
Contradiction and convoluted narratives-
His writing is a paradoxical allusion
To all that’s come before.
Oh, do these words
Not bring joy to your loveless lips?
Do these sounds
Not beat on your deaf ears?
Do these sights
Not alight those blind eyes?
And does poetry not brand and bind
Your beating heart-
Like the chains and shackles
That hold we poets down.