The desire to create,
My hands burn with purpose,
Callouses seals of the well.
The ten digit army marches forward,
Moving in perfect synchronization,
A grand design unfolds.
Realized on paper,
The images on my eyelids,
A half-hearted shadow suffices.
How does one's soul grow,
I wonder at my desk,
As the bottles collect all about.
Where does one find,
That spark which endows them,
With the power to make things divine?
A cage of suburbia,
So fine in its making,
The bounds of which humble my efforts.
Such an ungrateful child,
To resent these provisions,
And spit back the shelter I have.
Cannot be argued,
That complacency breeds,
A spirit bereft of value.
Works amount to little,
For while scaffolding stands,
Little else fills the void in between,
