What am I supposed to do
With the fire I find inside of me,
That lifts the leaves of my awareness
And yet is not my own?
How could I subdue the flame
That burns beyond my regulation
The living light that is inside me
And cannot be my own?
I am enthralled by mystery
The fire that I cannot control
That burns within and is outside of me
And yet is not my own.
Hot off the presses! Yeah. I just wrote this poem about five minutes ago, as I was trying to explain to myself why it is that I will write poetry, even though I know it’s not exactly a profitable market. Do you ever have that happen to you? I know you do. This little imaginary guy shows up and tells you why you’re wrong and suddenly you’re on the defensive against a figment. Those figments are evil, because they know you really can’t get revenge on them. Right? You know you’ve been there, right? C’mon now… don’t leave me hanging…. Oh fine. Be that way. I’m the only one who ever actually argues with his figments. Anyway, I was trying to argue with my figment and I said (out loud, I think), “Well, what am I supposed to do with the fire I find inside of me?” And that shut him up pretty well. And the rest is… well the rest is in that there poem right cher.