A Crumpled Ball
I write a line. It makes no sense. I tear up the paper.
Into little tiny itty bity bitsy bits.
Blow them onto the floor, for this is my mood now.
Begin again. Three words. They feel “shaky”.
I glare at them. They are not my words.
Yet they came from my fingers.
They end up in a crumpled ball, next to three others.
My muse is not amused. She is trying. I am the obvious problem.
Maybe we are not in the mood for this, I suggest.
We communicate by telepathy,
Unless she loses her temper.
Boom!
I find myself on the floor
She likes to show me
Who is boss
Copyright © Caren Krutsinger | Year Posted 2019
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