The Upper Hand

Hours hunched over papers,
Hours spent devising,
I want to write this,
And for that.
Yet, nothing leaves the ink.

Once I wanted stacks of money,
Then I wanted undying fame,
Soon I wanted boundless love,
I had to rewrite my dreams
Again and again.
The words ran out on me...
Who was I to blame.

Once I tried to work at it,
As hard-work is meant to be,
Then I tried to feel like others,
And soon forgot my self.

I waited for consents,
I longed for praise,
I become another of my kind.
Bright for a day,
Soon forgotten away.

Till that day when I shed,
The mask of civility.
Embracing back
Like an old friend,
Long lost and well loved --
My insanity.

I should have known better,
Language is an art,
Born of its whim.
You fondle it too much --
It calls upon itself
An untimely death.

Days engulfed in sloth,
And deliberations,
And conditions,
Yet,
When it bursts out rushing,
It does,
In spite of everything.

It unwombs and becomes,
Teases the mind,
Builds the voice,
Out on its own.
Shining, burning,
Slightly smiling,
Always knowing,
Who had the better,
Upper hand.