I know not whence the feelings borne to me come into being
Try as I might, the fact of their creation I am kept from seeing
Words that flow into the nether of the air are mine it's true
And all the judgment of their grace belongs rightly unto you
....................
With the effort thus made by my own hand and mind, I kneel
To take the  sharpened sword of your words as truth of how you feel
Quit hesitation, be  not afraid to cut me thus, as wounds do not forestall
The desperate need of my sure and steady march unto the muse's call
...................
For lo these many years my waste box had it fill of words cast down
Aspirations, high at first, yet ended in twisted puzzled frown
Like to ants, another line of words follows closely on the first
No amount of muse or voice robs power from my thirst