Impromptu
the poet's mind
races facing
in the mirror
they say my
muse but
even Beethoven
composed him
self before
a mirror not
believing
he was deaf
as all that say
"my muse" isn't
up to writing right
at this moment but
then they wait
and wait for their
muse to sate their
lust or love or hate or
any expression they wish
to spit upon
the page
and if it
isn't a
rage
blame it
on their
confused
muse that
had a bad
day
but
day
by day
i hope and
pray that
i may once
again see the
day when i get
to look face to face
once
again
with my
true muse
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