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.