virtue of the starving artist
some days I get worn out
by the balance of life,
fall asleep exhausted and
dreamless but
am up again suddenly and
before the sounding
of the alarm, terrified
that I won’t awake
hungry enough
to feed the tortured
soul of the poet who
paces in time with my pulse,
thumbs through the pages
of my right brain
and finds nothing
more of interest.
inseparate
there’s a current
pulling at my blood,
teaching its pulse to beat
in time with your own, but
the rhythm of the thing
is just a little off,
leaving my guts
twisted and edgy,
a sound of adrenaline
in the inner recesses
of my ears;
that must be why
looking you in the eye
leaves me dizzy and off-balance
and in describing you
i find myself
more a doctor than a poet.
