Where Are Words Coming From

Words pop onto a page sizzling, drizzling, sassy and sexy. I have no idea who put them into my fingers or my pen. The quintessential feathery quill laughs at my consternation. Feeling superior, as she should, she begins a known flow. I watch optimism form itself into a rhyming cadence. Where is this coming from? I ask my muse who is angry. She throws down irritated, mad, bad, furious, and sad. What if the refrigerator was on fire? I redirect myself.