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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 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!