Wordsmith

.

Inspiration? Perspiration?

What do those mean to you?

Some Muse granted whim, channeled,

Granting favor, denying flame?

Or a thick stack of books

Playfully refusing guidance,

Burying needed reference?

When I gaze at untouched page,

Though hands be stone, mind empty,

Brilliance is always required.

Whether poetic thought, pen stroke…

Whenever I hit a key, even if wrong,

I have to be right.

Mozart could do it at all at three.

Kissing pages with baby’s inked fingers.

A prodigy, until it killed him.

I’ve lived three fourteen times;

No profound child’s touch is left.

Just long, arduous work, alone with

Cold fingers, colder life for company

Still, genius is always demanded.

Pushed to precocious splendor,

No matter how close the asylum.

Forgo sleep, food, friends, relying

Instead, on Valium, alcohol, rare sex,

That keeps this molten heat,

Living magma pouring from my fingers,

In order to produce words.

Warming heart, chilling bones,

Spinning lies, holding up bent mirrors,

Magic tricks to enthrall and amaze,

While no one notices arrogant wordsmith

Hiding in the wings, pulling the strings.

When will being merely adequate

Be good enough?