A poem called Inspiration

The wind feels like it might tear the roof off of the house,
And I would be exposed;
Ironic and unhumorus,
A present not wished for.
To love your work is to burn it;
To love your work is to tear it open;
To love your work is to sever it;
To love your work is to devote your life’s blood to it.
There is something to be said for austerity.
Humility will only get you so far as a life practice.
Sometimes you need to lie
Bear the bones of it,
Tear back the flesh
Piece by piece,
Until there is nothing left.
Then there is a feast to be had.
Under the fingernails of doubt
There is a tiny fleck of hope
That might actually be worth something
If you could only dig it out
And bury your face in it,
To hope for that day
The roof opens up above your bed,
While you lay awake,
Letting your best ideas
Escape out the feather pillow.

Advertisements
Standard

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s