rough grit sandpaper tears as
you blink through the madness
try as you may, your addled brain
will not let you fall mercifully into sleep
just one more, it whispers…
just one more to slake the thirst
because the muse has awakened,
ravenous, lascivious, untiring…
you try to comply, do the best that you can –
you create all the magic of which you’re able
but nothing can stave off this unholy desire –
this desire to pour out your soul,
wrench out your heart and put it on paper –
to make them feel your pain and despair
and you sit, those tiny grains of sand
blasting away your eyeballs as you
fight for coherence in this world in
which sleep would be a mercy –
a mercy which never comes because
you cannot slake this thirst,
this powerful, lustful thirst,
of your muse…
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