Standing alone on a gas lit street,

Wondering about the next soul I will meet,

with Red cobblestones under my feet,

The shadows of Brownstones,

old homes that give off a special scent,

A strange message from a time gone by... is present,

How many before me have walked this way?,

How many artists, as I do now,

have stopped and prayed?'

for better times,
when people paid,

for works of the inspired heart,
brought to light each day,

Tis the artists path,
we know of no other way,

There was a time not long ago,
when true feelings could not be shown,

fearing the tyranny of the eyes,

So long now have I laughed and cried,
over what I felt I had to hide,
even under cover of moonless night,
artistic cowardice does not feel right,

demons of fear and despair,
this writer fights,

Sitting in the prison chair,
Not bathing, shaving or combing my hair,

My bladder swelling,
from being held tight,

pain in my back
the mind does fight,

as sanity begins to crack..

The writers fugue lasts for hours and days,
This poet has gone for weeks without the Sun's rays,

warming a body with a Blue hot mind,
agony and bliss intertwined,

Reaching for a butt, coffee, pills,
letting the cat jump off of the window sill,

maybe down some liquor,
and this curs-ed pen will move quicker,

then I can chase that feline pest,
and bring him back to this confining nest,

where writer weaves words into prose,

the poor thing wants some love I suppose,
and is off elsewhere to find what he needs,

a kitty hooker perhaps for company,
Hopefully she doesn't have a social disease,

My God, it's like giving birth,
cold pizza, warm beer does create such girth,

run or walk,

some other day,

for my God-given talent,
I now must pay,

The poet knows no other way,

Once the piece is done,
the minute is won,
sickness overtakes me,
my body hurts some,
and now the buzz wears off,
Oh Gee, more fun,
Withdrawal...
the real pain has begun,

Yes our work is to channel pain,
making sense sometimes of what is insane,

On this let me be plain,

The path we take is no mistake,
as the hand writes,
the body quakes,
and we give into the passion
of creative desire,
the process alone is burning White fire,

How did I learn to harness the flow,
dealing with such pain as I'd go and go,

How have I survived?,
only God knows,

It is not easy being strapped to the written page,
ask philosopher, poet or sage,
One secrets eludes me though,
I want to know,

what is it that drives my soul,

NO WONDER FEW WRITERS GROW TO BE OLD!

The Faery King