But Wait Is She Not a Part of Myself
If I could control my muse, things would be delightful
I could pretend that I care about the possibility of normality.
Trixie is a wild woman, a pirate queen, a gypsy soul.
She dances around the campfire of my soul in her birthday suit.
She laughs at my alarm when she throws crazy ideas onto a page.
But wait, is she not a part of myself?
I ask my witches, faeries, and dragons.
They nod, accepting me as I am, encouraging me to retain my power.
But if I control her, can she be as clever? As outrageous? As cute?
Ouch! She is batting me about my head and face with her little feathered Pen. Bright blue ink is flipping little dots onto my cheeks and nose.
Amusing me greatly, and not making me want to control her at all.
She is my imagination, my wit, my vigor, and my energy.
I dare not insult her, I must revere, respect, and love her.
I avidly search for her good, and point it out, nourishing her ego.
Loving her, adoring her, taking bits of my power back little by little.
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