Pick Up Your Pen and Write
A week passed, yet no words drifted in my mind
I feared I'd become numb and poetically blind
so, I gave up, went to bed and turned off the light
but in the very next moment I screamed in fright!
"Procrastinator!" My Muse yelled, in a huff.
"You are made of much stronger stuff!"
I slid beneath the covers; she threw back the quilt.
"Oh no," she fumed, "you'll not fill me with guilt!"
I pleaded and cajoled, but she bought none of it.
She pulled out my desk chair and said, "NOW SIT!"
I obeyed and sat but nothing worthy came to mind.
I felt her staring at my back, 'twas of the evil kind.'
Desperately, I tried to conjure rhymes that would do.
She sighed then she asked, "What's wrong with you?"
I turned my head to look at her so we could confer,
but she shimmered away in a wavy transparent blur.
I called to her, and reached out trying to pull her near
My arms grasped only air, for she had disappeared.
"Come back, please. I'm sorry I've not been writing,
but thoughts you've offered lately are all about fighting."
She reappeared smiling, and before she took flight,
whispered in my ear, "Just pick up your pen and write."
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