Beach Writer in the Rocky Mountains

A consuming fire burns within me.

Another night's chronic irritation,

unrelieved nor calmed by medication, meditation,

or self-analysis. My detested relentless companions,

sleeplessness and discontent,

force my surrender. I leave my bed and yield

to a compulsion to free this thorn.

The city outside my door sleeps.

An overhead light shines dimly upon my kitchen table.

Thoughts seep slowly from my brain to arm,

hand, pencil, and finally paper.

Words first creep through a fissure in my head.

A breached dike in my mind gives way.

Unrestrained gushing thoughts escape.

I write page after page for hours.

My hand aches, cramps, and spasms.

Pencils dull. Unrestrained voices liberate

dialogue and story upon stacks of writing papers.

I am driven to weariness, then to exhaustion.

My hand, now a limp, misshapen, swollen claw

of gnarled knotty joints can give no more.

The first hint of dawn dares to bleed

over the horizon outside my window.

A chaotic trail of frenzy testifies to my night hours.

Countless dulled pencils sprawl across the table.

Writing papers strew and heap upon one another.

Be it madness, I question. I know not, only that

they witness my many restless nights.

First light of day spills softly into the room.

Moment by moment, the sunrise illuminates

the battlefield on my kitchen table.

My skin warms, and strained eyes yearn to rest.

I see the truth of my many fitful nights.