My Muse is a Bitch

The Call
4-24-2009

Felt the approach behind me as I lay desperate for sleep.
The monster, as I call him, the muse some strive to reach.
I was again within his range, his thoughts I must relay
I begged - not really hoping - that he’d wait til break of day
He told me, “No. You must write now. This message can’t be late”
I grumbled as I grasped the pen and let the words pour down,
His fingers reaching deep within my skull to force them out.
         
         The world within the poet’s mind
         Is truly not his own-
         For were the poet one to choose
         The words that fall, that do amuse
         That tantalize and soon abuse
         Or frighten many wondering ears
         He’d wait until he was awake
         To feel full credit for his find
         For grasping words and large ideas
         Corralling them within his mind.

I told the spirit, “Leave me be- I write my thoughts, my own!”
He said, “you foolish mortal, be still, I’m not half done.”
I slumped with heavy dread over rushed and hurried words
If soon I did not gain my rest, the rest I do not know.

         Writer’s are psychics of their kind.
         They take ideas outside their minds
         They write, not knowing what will come
         Or when or how or quality
         Indefinite revisions each will need.
         No, the writer does not know.
         Where the demon lives -
         Where the idea is from  or where it goes
         Some chase him, begging “Give me more”
         Not knowing quite what lies in store for them
         Maybe something of the kind they’ve
         Already written for his mind -
         And stapled shut…

The voice was gone.
         The room was dark again.
I stumbled back into my bed still grasping tightly to my pen
“I’ll read it in the morning” I said and fell in bed…
And heard the demon laugh again - his voice still in my head.