A Poetic Curse

Deep within the night, when I had lie to rest,

I couldn't help but wonder about this strange longing in my breast,

and as I rose from my slumber

stood a pen and paper asunder, and my hand gave its surrender to this simple little test.

I started with one word, but then followed two

I became an artist, but instead of pictures, with words, I drew.

Great words of wisdom in a simple little rhyme,

in stanzas, in paragraphs, oh great paradigm!

There I stood late hours of the night

while my hand danced to the pen's delight.

Through Arabesques, and sashays, through ballet and tap

I hadn't grown weary, nor yawn for a nap.

But later in the night

I was met with fright

when my eyes grew wild, as my mind grew weary,

and my hand wouldn't stop its immortal writing fury!

I tried to stop, to release my grip,

but my pen simply would not have it!

With anger and passion it began to seize control;

my body became its roadway, and I had to pay the toll.

It was the King, and I the Jest,

it mocked me while I was confined to its arrest.

So I sat there in misery, weeping at what I had done,

when suddenly I saw it, at last! The beautiful rising sun!

It crept through my window, and splashed upon my face;

my savior had found me, and met me with his grace!

Delight filled my being

for it was daytime I was finally seeing!

And at that point my pen had seized,

for the terror that once lived within me, had now deceased.

Now this is the tale I tell

of how I bare this writing Hell;

this monstrous creature every night

I must through writing fight.

But I warn you dear child,

when you cannot go back to rest

do not do the pen's bidding,

do not partake in its cruel writing test.