Many nights I’ve called you forth,
Burning ink upon your shrine.
In the dark I sit distraught,
For a spark I chant and pine.
Disappointed I have wept,
Waiting for a verbal seed.
But mostly I remain frustrated,
Wailing till my tonsils bleed.
Subjugated by a Muse,
Who holds me in her grip.
Before too long, I’ll blow a fuse,
Whilst biting off a lip.
Over ridden by this thought,
From which there is no cure.
I’m Grinding molars into salt,
Until my gums are raw.
At last I hear her in my ear,
And feel her push upon my pen.
After which I start to tingle,
Inspiration’s here again!
A junkie poet I admit,
Only words can soothe this pain.
When at last I hear your song,
It’s like I’m piping crack-cocaine.
The Rhyme’s complete, she has fled,
Drained I am and wired.
Return to me my sweetest Muse,
I long to be inspired
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The one above looks like Dracula drained your blood.
But I liked the poem!
exactly...what external stimuli stimulate your creative
capacity...being in love with life...helps...or is it with
a muse...
Behind all creation is a silence...getting into the zone...
...in the spirit of following the muse...am meditating...which
has-liberated my mind in many ways....
Thank you Max, for sharing your verse.
Ron