Poetry grows as a function of pain.
Organized anguishes conquer your brain.
Brilliance is a burden so rare,
You can not ignore it, so it, you must bear.
You will not sleep; no, you're not allowed.
You're a slave to the page til it's all written down.
The night is long gone, but there's no time to mourn:
As the sun starts to rise, a young poem is born.
You lament for lost sleep as you stumble around.
Your heart in your ears is a deafening sound.
The pain has subsided, but you're well aware
That though it's appeased, it is always still there.
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.
