A mug of tea steaming on the desk,
a bottle of water waiting for exercise.
Boxes scattered around the room
as the Christmas season says farewell
and Easter peeks through Lenten windows.
Inspiration buds on the lips of my dreams
but exhaustion and the rhythm of life
keep pushing me down.
I can’t think – can’t focus – can’t create
these anxieties mingling with what I want to do.
Inspiration won’t strike every day.
It can’t – it doesn’t work that way.
The muse is not a slave – maybe friend?
Oft times the nemesis of all I look for
and all I want to do but can’t without her.
But what if I don’t call on her
since she won’t call on me?
I wouldn’t take this from a friend –
I wouldn’t take this from myself.
So why give her what she wants?
Oh, muse, muse, my wonderful, terrible muse –
You don’t own my rights
don’t own my heart
You’re a hindrance and a beast
and so I shall say
with all gusto and fortitude
“Farewell to musing time
and hello to dreaming and creating time.”
When – or if? – you feel like friends again,
my manipulative companion,
I shall welcome you with trepidation but grace.
But until then, go. “Stay gone.
I have writing to do, and I don’t need you.”