At times

Every time I write, I feel a fool
When all the thought, the work
Into which I pour my all –
Sometimes, it’s true,
Mad paper shreds won’t buy
My sanity, and bleed no genius,
But waste.
At other times, as sure as gravity
God will drop through the thought,
Clunking at the bottom
Like gold.
But even at these times,
Have I been gullible? Have I lost
My wit, over-gestating, still too much
Waste paper?
Oh, all my heart, it bleeds for you;
And all my lungs, they breathe
For you. For you,
On whom it all –
They all, that is, all of my parts
Collected – gathers, never will dispel,
Or fall.