My numb mind is pierced with a noisy ache

That presses against its delicate membrane

And wants to explode into authentic art.

I pity it for it will never be me.

Under night cover, I sit in my room for

Light-loving ideas that weave on a loom of 

White paper an incoherent design of words.

And my imagination is studded with winged muses

 parading through a field, harvesting the cerebral crop of words –

Will they ever be mine?

My fallow mind yearns for fecundity.

And I cry and long for a long time to

Water my field of sorrows hoping to

produce some pitiable bumper of wit –

Altars to my creaking mind factory.