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.