Occluded Wordsmith

Days spent in nothingness!
Exercise of mind and body inert!
Writing stilled!
Ambition gone!
Direction lost!

What folly attends as my constant companion
Pulling me from accomplishment?
Have I a lazy, unproductive muse or
Perhaps I have no stimulus at all.

Is my apparent lack of ambition and desire set in stone or
Can it be chipped from the granite of sedentary illusion?
Who has the chisel and hammer? Certainly not I.
What lights the fire of desire?
Friction? Fiction?

Present to me, a guiding light, the spark,
No, I need a flame,
An ember would be lost in the ashes of despair.
A spark, a flame, a roaring fire,

Burn! Burn!
Ignite a passion!
Inflame a desire!
Let the fire rage uncontrolled,

Burning away the lethargy, the inertia, the pyre,
Let me rise above the ashes,
A purified soul of intent,
Raging with the need to do, to be.

A soul inspired to create from the rubble,
A story, a poem, a play,
A phrase that sparks the imagination of mankind,
and produces in this physical being that it possess,
A sense of fulfillment, accomplishment,
A reason for being.

Let there be desire that rises from the ocean of fear.
Fear, that a wave might break,
Against the shore of criticism,
Or wash upon the island of rejection.

Let a river of desire break free,
Winding its way through the valley of I can! I will! I do!
And at last pours into the Gulf of Publication.

Hear, I beg thee with burning heart,
My silent cry, my patience ebbs,
And rescue me.
Guide me onto the path,
That leads to fulfillment,

And, at the end of my journey,
May I lie down to rest,
With the contented feeling that,
My life was not in vain,
And I can say with pride,
"I came, I wrote, I did my best."