Troubled thoughts that have no home
Float atop your cebrospinal fluid
The meaningless ideas don't seem to sink
Cause they're piling up until you can't think

And all you have is that pen in hand
Ready to carve up a feast for your spiritual satisfaction
The salvation within your salivation
The taste of sonnets becoming your intoxication

You are the artist of your times
Painting the world around you without graphic representation
All you need are the words and a crumbled script
And a Picasco work comes from a sheet that's ripped

The starved reach out to have just a crumb
Of the late night contemplations and morning deliberations
You serve the hungry your heart and soul
And they eat it up leaving you a bottomless hole.