Done With the Muse

Poetry is a messy business. It reveals itself in phases, Flowing, growing, dancing upon the starkly untouched pages. Happily, the stream of thought won’t stop for days upon days Then, BAM! It burns out in raging, steely blade, cold stages. Where’s the muse? Her inspiration tepid and haunting, Never there when you truly need her the most, Only when she feels like playing up to you again. Otherwise, she’s dodging side-eyed, hiding like a ghost. Well, I’m done with the muse, no longer feel I need her. Finding inspiration in everyday experiences, people, places And things; thoughts I conjure up all by myself at 3 AM. While the rest of world sleeps in dreams and guarded spaces. She’s no longer welcome. I’m keeping her at arm’s length. She let me down one too many times and dropped me in the brink. From now on, all you get is the swells from the depths of me I don’t care what the muse may say, no longer care what she thinks. Chula Fleming © August 15, 2024