Attck of the Muse
Subjugated by a Muse,
Who holds me in her grip.
Before too long, I'll blow a fuse,
Whilst biting off a lip.
I sell my soul but once a day,
By night I thus retract.
To the Dweller service pay,
Providing what I lacked.
Overridden by this thought,
From which there is no cure.
Grinding gnashers into salt,
Until my gums are raw.
At last a means to ambulate,
Abscond this mental cliff.
A Hell where hornets congregate,
Vanquished by a spliff.
The pain of living I shall numb,
By sitting on the fence.
That fabled day will finally come,
Which Proffers consequence.
Until the month of burgeon verse,
Because it feels rewarding.
I'll advocate this hate I nurse,
And bleed these words I'm hording.
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