Writers write better when hungry
they must be treated like orchids
never too much light or they die
and they bloom only when starved
I live in a time of great disparity
There is abundance around me
but the economy is rotten
the people burdened by their sloth
I have a practice of great potential wealth
there is little with which to satisfy the immediate toll
The future is full of opportunity
my cases continue to settle
one book progresses to its formal publication
yet the past is full of misery and worry
my creditors fill the air with their lamentations
the future claims to yellow gold and sun
I am as strong and healthy as I have ever been
but am rotten in the core like the economy
I lift like Atlas, ride with the wind
inside, I feel the turning of a worm
My god has shown both interest and misery
as if to goad me to reject his existence
I quote science, but only as a necessity
to prove that it too exists only for something else
I seek to disprove the existence of a higher power
only by proving that the universe it too complex
to exist at all, whether by his will or not
Everything about me is juxtaposed
Even in my personal life
i have the best lover in the world
and yet i never have sex
she embodies beauty and contraditions
I love coffee dearly in the morning
and yet I continue to deny myself
without a clear reason I am tortured
and tonight I will sleep soundly
in a place that I hesitate to pay for
satisfied only that the quality of the deal
offsets the extravegance
that the future scoffs at
and the present abhors
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