“I said I get inspired.”  

She asks, “What fuels your desire?”  

I have no grand aspirations—  

just the thrill of fleeting gratification.  

Shallow, perhaps?  

You tell me I have the ideas.  

Who cares about the reason?

My mind is a whirlwind of swirling paint,  

the world a blank canvas begging for my brush.  

My eyes, fogged glasses, see no more light,  

the smudge of reality my blurred delight.  

Words flow like a wild river,  

thoughts run amok,  

and you give me a key to unleash them.

Expect no remorse, no guilt.  

I am the lunatic whose words ring true,  

the madness of reality—  

I seem immune to it all.

I am an artist in need of a canvas;  

the world is my muse.  

No reason is needed to create;  

I will not be stifled,  

I will not be tamed.

Run wild, wreak havoc,  

spread chaos—  

my work here is done.

I am “smile.”  

Ironic, don’t you see?