"Just Wait for Inspiration”

they whisper,

as deadlines gnaw at my bones.

This canvas of white

mocks my existence.

I'll forge inspiration

from marrow and midnight ink,

because contracts don't wait

for divine intervention.

Only corpses wait.

I am alive,

fingers bleeding possibility

across empty spaces.

Each keystroke a heartbeat,

each paragraph birthed

through gritted teeth.

I've become thunder

in human form,

crackling with voltage

that Zeus himself would envy.

My creativity burns

like fever through veins,

untamed, unbound.

They say I'm mad—

perhaps they're right.

But madness built empires

and painted masterpieces.

I am hunger incarnate,

prowling these digital wastes,

while inspiration lies dormant

in others' minds.

So don't tell me to wait.

Inspiration isn't a gift;

it's prey.

And I've become

the perfect predator.