I Am Obsessed
Trixie is a muse that is less than amusing
She wakes me up feeding the last line of the best poem ever into my mind
I jump out of bed, take care of the body a bit, and bam.
The entire line is gone, even the first word.
I can hear her snickering.
I spend the rest of the day trying to capture or reinvent the best poem ever.
She does not do this to me daily, but about three times a month.
My writes are frenzied, furious, purposeless even.
I toss things down onto a page that don’t make sense even to me sometimes.
But I am compelled, obsessed, deranged, cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs about capturing.
The poems that Trixie is formulating in my sleep, and teasing me with.
I cannot not write, so I keep doing it.
To no avail, and yet, it is a compulsion that has overtaken my soul.
If I could stop I might.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
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