writing painting and cleaning
I plunk myself down in front of a computer
No reason, nothing to say, not inspired or anything
Others say they stare at a blank page or screen
Not me; I marvel at my hands as they begin to type
Who are we channeling? Who is writing this stuff?
I have no idea, but my muse is always writing, writing, writing
Unless we are painting, and then I do not know whether she is asleep
Or sitting on my shoulder, whispering to me which strokes to use
If there is anything I do on my own, it is probably clean
Because who wants to do that, right?
Not even me.
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