Muses Argue For My Soul

Emily urges me forward, to look at my most innocent self She is all about romance, yearning for more of it. I am not sure if she ever experienced it in real life, however, her words are true and I understand her need. We sit in silence, contemplating my next poem I do not write flowery stuff, I telepath to her. I hear a tiny bit of laughter. Are you really Emily? I ask or is this Sylvia? My poems have been really dark lately. I sense they are both here. Fighting over me. Coleridge is trying to shout them both down. He wants me to pay attention, so I can write like he does. I scoff at this idiocy. The pressure puts me into a prone mood. I lie down, and let my eyes gently flutter shut, relaxing in the midst of my muses' argument for my soul. Knowing Trixie will be along shortly to kick them all out.