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Drawn Hot

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Focus is a far-off, foreign concept.
Idleness is the plague,
Causing me to burn
That which was once
My soul's sole shelter.

Without this outlet,
I'm set to self-destruct.
I'm f*****.
My eloquence is dead.

Gone.
Its assured return,
Masquerading as consolation,
Soothes not my aching soul,
Nor does it draw ink to page.

I'm trapped in this periodic prison.

This seemingly cyclical nature
Points to the possibility
That inspiration must be drawn hot
From the flames of passionate truth,
Flames fueled by desperation,
And sparked by the will to create.



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