Inspiration is fickle,
Mostly imaginary.
It strikes when you feel it
Whether for good or for ill.
However unfair,
The best inspiration
Can always be found
When I'm most upset.
For me, beauty springs from
Pain and anger, from hatred and sadness.
Elegance lives in the night,
And the moonbeams
Reveal it all, breaking
And banishing the block,
The cloud that obscures my thought,
My opinion, and my say in the world.
The harsh light of the sun
Kills poetry, vanquishes thought
Gives way to happy idleness
Useless chatter,
Uninspiring laughter.
Shadows and irony
Awaken my ability with words
To break free from its prison
In the contented side of me.
Is inspiration worth unhappiness?
That's something I can't decide.
Lately I feel that
I'm only truly alive
When I'm fed up
With life as I know it.