I’m going to the hospital. I’ve made a reservation,
for I am much in need of a creative restoration.
I need an operation to regain my way of seeing.
I’m going to regain my glow–the fiber of my being.
I suffer from prosaism. Triteness clogs each vein.
My poetic diagnosis? Derivative. Inane.
The abundance of my poems does not refute the fact
of the originality that lately they have lacked.
So, take me to the hospital. I’m ready to be cut.
I’m ready to be lifted from my creative rut.
Unveil my eyes, unblock my brain. Clear pathways to my heart,
but as you improve parts of it, please leave the broken part.
For all the pleasures of the world do not make up a whole.
It also takes some sorrows to feed a poet’s soul.