When my mind is amiss
among questions and influences,
my spirit will be dominated
by creativity’s insistence.
True emotion will spew forth
with an urgency I cannot ignore.
While words dart about or scream,
my pen feverishly dances.
I know not when poems will surface,
a deluge, overwhelming my mind.
Depriving me of sustenance or sleep,
they know I will succumb.
My petulant, obtuse muse
will declare stark observations.
In words both ardent and anxious,
I revel in being myself.
Poetry is a mistress,
both seductive and demanding.
She declares my inner truth,
in thunderous moments of insight.
Ignoring her enchantment,
I would wither inside.
I won’t commit artistic suicide;
I have already tried.