I fear the fertile creative periods
for I fear my sadness,
but it's as necessary for me as air.
I'm afraid of my vigor
because writing saps my energy
and gives me energy.
Food and sleep become afterthoughts.
I feel like a candle with a hundred wicks
at each end--all lit,
but there's a gale blowing.
I pray at least one still burns,
and Morpheus will transmit
a clever plot into my mind
for me to record
for these open-eyed dreams