the fire

a fire burns behind his eyes
as shapeless words march 'cross the screen
fev'rishly he breaks all ties
with half-baked words and half-truth screens.

his fingers itch to etch out lines
but all thoughts flee before the judge.
ideas race around his mind
and come out jumbled, unrhymed sludge.

he's got the sadim touch, it seems,
for all he touchs turns to shit.
the golden words which filled his dreams
are cliched nothings, lacking wit.

fin'ly he gives up and sighs
wipes clean the slate, and goes to bed,
though still a fire burns inside;
the emptiness gets in his head.