The battle between knowledge and inspiration
rages in the glow of my television set
neither ever wins
but on each battle I bet

my nights entertainment
meager though it be
it's those damn motion pictures
that too often entertain me

In an empty world
bleak as any wall
excitements hard to find
and inspirations very small

In the wee hours of the night
or the morning as you like it
my pen continues scrawling
my comfy sheets are calling
and though I should be sprawling
I continue writing, just one more little bit

True talent is like he little voice
that sings inside my head
if you lapse and let it control you
all to soon you will be dead

it threatens to consume you
to burn you like a match
soon you're running, never writing
'cause if you stop and let it catch

you, then you will be writing
and it'll never let you stop
every glimpse must be recorded
you must write until you drop

From lack of sleep
or lack of food, or lack of drink
every time you realize something
you have to stop and think,

"Now should I write this one thing down
or should I let it pass?"
"Should I commemorate this moment
and in writing make it last?"

"Or do I let it go on
floating down the line
one more drifting writers log
lost on the river of time."

A poets paranoia
is the name of this disease
not sure if blessed or cursed I am
in a way it's like raising bees

Blessed with all the honey
any bear could ever need
but is it worth the price of sting
and fair riddle 'tis indeed!

But for now, as I see it
I can only live and be it
That I, this life, have chosen to be
But I choose it, or it choose me?

AcB 7.14.97