The artistic mind, a fragile fickle beast
one is never sure of its morning temper,
sometimes savage, full of ire and broken glass
spitting **** and vinegar at all who pass
in a world which cannot understand,
the sheer fustration of creation,
at others more content to let things sit a while,
to smile and wait for the muse to rise
it is forever fearful, of losing any inspiration it has gained
worrying it may be forever chained
never allowed to roam,
hoping that it might return
not to spurn the feelings we lay bare
but to give us hope
and then to help us cope
with whatever wild and brooding notion we have hiding there