Wait.
Tapping.
Waiting
            for inspiration.

For that
            speck.
            dust.
            of
to enter my mind
            and stir it wild
            with anticipation

but while,
i wait,
i realize,
i'm tired.
            again
           

            and some more.

and a book becomes a bore
            and the sun grows old
                        and the vision
            becomes the mold

what is seen is now given free-reign         over my imagination

            but somehow
            somehow or other
            it works.
            i'm led to believe
            it's right.

alone. up in one spot.
            alone.

that's where i belong
and that's where i'm found
           
but disaster only brings peace
            and that's what i'm holding out for.