To Create. To Live

Creators Warden

He is my personal warden.

Following a monotone script, day in, day out.

Monotone feeling -I should correct- never the same words.

Get back to work. Keep going. No more distractions.

What a bother.

Though I invited him you see.

Asked that he might share a touch of his light with me.

A touch of his beauty.

He mocks me now.

His skin is paper and his eyes are screens, his mouth is graphite and his words are poetry.

Always a reminder of my cursed apathy.

Of my sloth.

I write and write and my impatience shows through.

Yet every picture he paints is another heart beat skipped.

Is my desk a prison?

My inkwell a ball and chain?

Let passion be as passion is, all consuming and ever fleeting.

The crack of the whip and I'm writing again.

What right has he to light a fire in me?

To tell me to write when his words grow like love, and mine drown like sorrow?

I have lost sight of my original intentions.

At this point I'm no longer sure if I hold gratitude for this mans presence, or rage.

Yet I need him still.

I again want to find that testimony I once bore for him so fondly.

This man, 

I call him inspiration.