Oh what sorrow to lose what work was not written down in the moment.
Forgotten soon after with my memory
To harbor such a curse of a poetic tongue
to spew out verse like vitriol into any nearby receptacle
like a vomit off a railing into an endless current down bellow
Is this what some call divine inspiration?
This lifting feeling of the demons deep within
letting them speak their verse
leaving me standing after without recollection?
