Poetry Factory

staring vacantly at space, caught up in a wild chase, conjuring up vague images for my blank, empty pages; damn old fool out for a spin, unconcerned with any gain, fumbling yet, always aiming for some hidden meaning; sometimes mere inspiration but more often perspiration, even plain self-immolation, this silly poetic pretension; tonight is a long, long night, a tough and drawn out fight with a tough, cruel adversary, the masochist inside of me; so why write, asks this voice, and I reply, this is my choice, a trail that I just have to follow by rolling along with the flow; wish I were a poetry factory grinding on day after day, not overworking this brain dripping down the drain.