When It Feels Like It



I get annoyed
Some days
When I sit here
Typing words
On a blank page
To make them fit
Into poetry.

My muse speaks
When it feels like it.

Sometimes it doesn’t
And I’m stuck with
Idle chatter
That only feels good
When I erase it
From the page.

Other times
I get something
That looks profound
And I feel smug
With my creation
Until I realize
I might be
The only fool
Who cares.

Once in awhile
I manage to
Make myself smile
At something witty
And give my muse
A pat on the back.

It winks at me
Because it speaks
When it feels like it.

© 2006 by Robert E. Blackwell