A Gift of Sorts

What gift unto this mind was granted so To make these awful ghosts inside my head? The fountain pen, accustomed to my woe? The paper, still awaiting inkwell's thread? The pen: no door within to human minds, And paper does not write the poet's words. The painful webs that others rarely find: My mind, a path into a bleaker world. This "gift", these pains, that seem eternal yet, My muse, a lamp that hungers still for fuel, These pens and paper, molecules upset, My happiness depletes my lust for toil. So long as I live under thoughts' command My inspiration thrives throughout the land.