Inspiration

Where did inspiration go?
It was a welcome guest among
pills and smoke, mania and madness.

Is inspiration a product of pain,
of suffering, or does darkness
call it from the depths of the
soul and lure it into consciousness?

The pressure of pencil against paper
no longer gives me that exciting chill;
my eyes do not see my amber-haired muse.

She must have found another man
who, in the throws of agony, cries.
That no longer plagues my daily life,
yet I miss her, yearn to be with her.

Inspiration must become bored with
those who are simply content.
Only the thrill of destruction,
of mad incarnation
stir its breast.

Leave me stranded you bastard,
you wench, your golden jewels
an unwelcomed memory and I
Will write a new muse into creation.

and She will be mine, forever.