rabid reader
06-01-2006, 05:45 PM
The hateful words flow from my feeble pen,
In the room of the four walled dream
The warm fire fuels my war on Zen,
That has made me cry, made me deem
Those who try to penetrate my walls
Will fail to pass my fire, will fail to pass
Through my broken home, and halls
That have formed in my cranial mass.
But still here I am writing of my time
And staring at my leather-bound books
Wishing for some warmth, that would save my prime
From the clammy claws of these maddened hooks
That wish to delve into my brain.
Still I try to feed the fire, so to heat my hands
That stave off the fire and keep me sane.
Yet as if I have returned to the sands
Where I am stuck in paradox of indecision:
The heat of creativity is the fuel of insanity,
And it will, of course, lack the precision
That has been created through my vanity.
In the room of the four walled dream
The warm fire fuels my war on Zen,
That has made me cry, made me deem
Those who try to penetrate my walls
Will fail to pass my fire, will fail to pass
Through my broken home, and halls
That have formed in my cranial mass.
But still here I am writing of my time
And staring at my leather-bound books
Wishing for some warmth, that would save my prime
From the clammy claws of these maddened hooks
That wish to delve into my brain.
Still I try to feed the fire, so to heat my hands
That stave off the fire and keep me sane.
Yet as if I have returned to the sands
Where I am stuck in paradox of indecision:
The heat of creativity is the fuel of insanity,
And it will, of course, lack the precision
That has been created through my vanity.