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