The poets mad his ramparts stormed his mind has twisted his head has turned,
bridges smashed the battle lost and his note books we have burned.
Padded white walls screwed down stalls, no place to run so they like to think,
but lashing out I think a scream and use my thoughts like a laser beam.
But though they listen they can’t hear me think
And I break the silence with a blink.
More books and opinions needles and the oh such bitter sweet twisted use of the nations
electric power sauce, it feeds me; if only they knew.
If only you; ugh there you go again trying to burn away parts of my brain
But those parts are my muse and you call me insane
Go ahead and twist some more light me up and switch me on
Strap me down and wire me up but you cannot make my muse be gone.
Don’t stop now you’re having fun and we’re only half way done,
Don’t mind me I’ve played here before but by harsher rules and with twice the tools but
you can’t make my muse run.
Still alive I cling to the poet’s standard of a poet’s pen resting on the forever-clear
paged book of works yet to be penned,
And using my sword I pull myself up and look deep into the clear blue page before I take
some words to shape and bend.
This torture I speak of that’s so damaging to the poets mind
It’s known as the torture of day job and it sends the night writer blind.