A Whim of Inspiration

A whim of inspiration would do me fine, for I am a joker at heart, and an amorist at mind. I will sit as a recluse, and poker with time; for it is never of the essence. Unless spent in God’s presence, adorning him with lofty presents, forgetting the fad of the world; the twisted and the twirled, the crust of the earth, only bringing to the almighty; the incense and the mirth. For, giving God praises therein lies pleasure, and for a poor man; God is, the great treasure.

But to scribble the next line, I will certainly be greedy; searching for that impulsive thrust of wit. To wrought the interested, to suffice the needy. Seldom are those thoughts when inspiration is lacking, so I sit here searching for that profound line; for my own gratification, something worthwhile, something smashing. To make this all seem of sense, just that one line. Or write until I find that whim of inspiration; for my poetic pores are burning, for this titillating feeling of revelling in my poetic trance as that of love.

But that is my very woe, I choose not to be cheap and scribble of love. Far too easy it is; I have from her and family and that from above. No, I will not be the amorist, but I shall claim the poet’s stance, unbiased to the real and exaggerate the feeling. Indulging in my creation, I write to raise the forgone ceiling. Too much is never easy, so I soldier on yet to find the profound, the not cheesy. Where is that, whim of inspiration? Save me now, for it’s long in the poem and I’ve yet to feel that moment of ecstasy. To ease my temple, and soak in a good read, finding myself and finding myself; smiling thinking about the last line. The one that really did the damage, the one that unknowingly committed the crime.

I am now frustrated, as my journey has seen itself through. I am exacerbated by thought of little or no inspiration trickling as dew. I’ve lost; this will be just another plague of a poem, dying to become something it has always wanted to be. But for now, it suffers at my demise, for there was no inspiring thought. I served best, as amorist.