Muse Loves a Blank Page

A blank page sits here forlornly looking small and alone. I pick up my fingers and type out a poem. Does it make sense? Possibly to someone. Not sure who. But confident, I type out another. Now I’m up to twenty and two. The blank pages are full and my fingers are sore. A writer who writes, every second and more. Is it as easy as my muse would let me believe? I am pretty sure it is for she will never leave. She likes writing; it makes her happy. It brings her joy. She encourages me in every way, yelling things like ahoy. A pirate poem is always on the tip of my tongue For Trixie, my muse, is full of great fun!