I lie sleeping awake tired and angered, forewarned the uncertainty of this coming day, always different hoping, casting to shape, form, mold so that I might be unsparing impelled by the impetus subtle like the placid waters never there but when it rains or the symbiosis of a driven stampede Yet there are those occasions so suddenly my sculpture melts away and I am naked, the abandoned child naked and bellowing However still this is the madness my inner madness it is the potence which devises me a method of progress and deigned wisdom though I am sleepless now, waiting to impart this creation ready to be who I am I climb without movement moaning into a fast sleep repose I could not have now as I have lived so much, so long so well All I think, feel, breathe awakens the alchemist in me and becomes my passion It is always time to live much more perhaps after a fragment of repose, perhaps, perhaps once I am able to dream yet more, releasing posture to its own regard, as this is but my manner
This poem was written in response to a topic suggestion by one of my most avid readers, Little Dancer. She prompted me: “artists and their afflictions…artists are compelled to do what they do.” Her idea included that there are those who don’t understand why artists are so pushed to create, as if from some uncontrollable force within us, yet there seems to be no reward (ie money). We know what the reward is though ;) My favorite thing she said was “It is as involuntary an action as breathing.” And I think that pretty much sums it up, so I almost didn’t need to write the poem lol. Thanks Little Dancer for your contribution and furthering my motivations!