Stress and creative urges rarely come
Together for me; one drives out the other,
And in the busy rush of daily hum
I throw poetic urges in the smother.
Only in gaps between the everyday
Can I find moments, stolen from the whole,
To push myself out of the smoky grey
And illustrate a version of my soul
With golden letters and a curlicue.
I try to make it happen, but I know
The realization of it's more to do
With her, and how I feel to her I owe
My happiness, than to my own success;
I am, by all my own accounts, a mess.
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