Dreams

These teasing, tumbling
Thoughts in my head
Of faraway, fanciful
Items of dread
Come capering, cackling
From dusk to dawn.
For a second I see them,
And then they are gone.

To be a great writer in this world, does one have to think about disturbing things at least a little bit? They exist; they're everywhere around us:

O beggar,
He who with the refuse lies,
What hid your soul so deep behind your eyes?

I think about this, because one of my deepest, most-desired requests to God is that He will make me an excellent writer - indeed, one of the best writers in the world. Do I know what I am asking for? What does it take to give one the bone-deep sadness of a Dostoevsky?

One half-cup of sadness,
A whole cup of pain,
Of diligence a handful,
Of wisdom the same.
A teaspoon of friendship,
A sprinkling of joy,
Six particles of patience,
No fear to annoy.

What do I do now, in the meanwhile, as I work, study, and learn? I don't have time to write properly!

Change that patience to a cup.
Pour it in and stir it up.
Stop it, taste it, frown, and then
Go and mix it up again.

What do I do? I work, study, and learn!  ¶ 11:57 AM