hook manacles around my wrists
chain a pen to my fingertips
lock me to an antique desk
command me to do what I do best

force-feed me thoughts straight to my head
make me dream ‘till I’m almost dead
stuff inspiration down my throat
fill me with words that make me float

hold a sword-edge to my chest
promise me the iron maiden’s threat
press a cold gun barrel to my back
color my future ink-stained black

make me write ‘till my fingers bleed
’till I’ve written enough for your famished need —
and know this: without this prison stay
I’d have done it anyway.

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