I’ve written about why I write in the past. This is how I write.
He loved by devoting himself to his art.
His art was only realised at night.
In the throes of anti-matter dust,
In the throes of loves arrow thrust,
In his minds madness trust,
In his blood thirsty nocturnal lust.
It all came to him half awake, half asleep,
Like Dali his mentor painting surrealist sweeps,
He’s the lyrical dreamer with spoon in hand,
Waiting for a wink of Loves command.
Off to work in the dusk he strains,
Eye bags, Eye Sores, Iris pounding, retina pain,
Awaiting his lot, for words to claim,
In the auction of poets where the asleep are slain.