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.