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.


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.