Faul is as faul does

I crave the creativity of imagination Conceiving an idea that excites the idle soul To toil it for value and purpose As Aristotle intended it to be. But waiting for the time to do Limits the glory of accomplishment As the idea rots in an imagined grime. But to strike beyond this negligence of my apparent talent Could my purpose come to fruition And creativeness oozes its milk and honey. Let me seek the sage in my troubled soul To defeat the self-inflicting inquisitor Plaguing the catalyst of my destiny to prosper.