Poetry grows as a function of pain.

Organized anguishes conquer your brain.

Brilliance is a burden so rare,

You can not ignore it, so it, you must bear.

You will not sleep; no, you're not allowed.

You're a slave to the page til it's all written down.

The night is long gone, but there's no time to mourn:

As the sun starts to rise, a young poem is born.

You lament for lost sleep as you stumble around.

Your heart in your ears is a deafening sound.

The pain has subsided, but you're well aware

That though it's appeased, it is always still there.

Inspiration lurks, ever waiting to strike.

It exclusively chooses a time you don't like.

Try as you might, you are bound to the pen,

And after each respite, it comes back again.