If I have no stick

If I have no stick

I shall find one.

Am I so empty

As to believe suffering

Is an essential accompaniment

To artistic accomplishment

The toll of the sleepless.

The demons of guilt that devour

The soul,

That peaceful existence is not

Compatible

With creative endeavour.

Poetic reality

Depends on conviction

The jagged truth

The sharp-edged angst

The swoon of emotion.

Am I fraudulent?

Unless a petulant drunk

A hapless toerag

Propped on a stool

In a pool of tears and beer

Stacked in a pile

Of unwashed glasses

At the end

Of a dirty bar

Wrapped in secondhand clothes

Smelling of cheap booze

And Cigarettes.

An angry old soak

The butt of the joke

At the end of the day

When the roll is called

And I am always absent.

Is that the truth

Of things

Does it matter how well I sleep

Am I so sad as to believe

Only the lonely

Know how to cry.