My driving force is discontent;
A complacent poet is silent.
In happiness, my words are unspent,
Until the hush makes my pen violent.
Trickling, the awkward verse forms,
Stumbling, inorganic but necessary.
I force my hand, and it dutifully performs,
But the muse is absent, and I feel arbitrary.
The inspiration comes in waves. I'm comfortable, which apparently means I don't need to write much. Lies. I'm working on remembering dreams more. I'm hoping it will help. Wish me luck and come visit me on the astral plane.
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