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.
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