To what do we owe, we writers all, the honor of your presence?

It was our first impression, friend, that you were evanescent.

You come and go as you see fit,

You inspire then turn words to shit,

You help us start then make us quit,

You make us feel our minds unfit…

For the work that always calls to us,

The need, the greed, the want, the lust.

For fame and fortune, genius, praise,

We wile away our precious days,

Striving for that perfect verse,

Despite the fact we know we’re cursed.

And you’re the reason we are so,

You won’t live with us, you come and go.

Sometimes you’re quite generous,

Lending rhymes as hookers kiss.

Then you turn your scaly back to us,

And breathe your fire elsewhere…thus…

We’re left with fragments of perfection,

But the rest eludes, avoids detection.

The truth is, muse, without your blessing,

The world is not quite worth undressing.

For naked though we try to paint her,

Our efforts do no more than crassly taint her.

Her beauty lies with our rendition

Of her fleeting, frail condition.

But with only moments in our grasp,

And needing words to unhook the clasp

Of the wavy dress the world is wearing,

We’re left doing naught more than staring,

As, once again, we’re left alone,

Kneeling, prostrate, at your throne,

While you turn your head away to others,

Showing off your other lovers,

Flaunting popularity,

Ignoring that the scarcity

Of your inspiration makes us crumble,

Makes us stutter, makes us mumble,

Leaves us feeling deaf, blind, and dumb,

Renders hearts and heads all numb.

For what’s the use of pen in hand,

When eyes can’t see, and legs can’t stand?

Why should we even make a plan,

When we know you’ll leave us waiting, and…

Always wondering when you’ll show,

Wondering if we’ll ever know,

When to count on you for grace,

When you’ll unveil that lovely face,

When you’ll help us find our pace,

And vanish, gone, without a trace.

But, muse, the funny part about this is

I’d wait a thousand years for just one kiss

From your crimson, whorish, faithless lips,

As your dagger, through my back it rips.

Because that moment when you touch my mind

And the world’s most graceful dress unbinds,

That’s the instant that I find…

Everything I’m looking for.

I’ve seen the darkest of my synapses and I wonder where they lead.

I wonder what kinds of thoughts go wild there, and what feelings they will meet.

I get lost with all my wondering, but it’s my only chance to find my way.

I’ll go crazy with my wondering, but crazy is as crazy does, or at least that’s what they say.

And what is crazy, anyway, but just a step above mundane?

It’s ordinary plus some flare, a rabid bark away from tame.

Brave’s not quite the word for me, since brave’s a noble breed.

It’s crazy that I want to be, it’s crazy that I need.

Wild feels like home to me, out where the trains don’t run.

Insane’s the butter for my bread, the habit for my nun.

You might say I’m down a screw, my shed is short tool,

And I would say go fuck yourself, I’m awesome, man, I rule.

And then you’d say, “Well, that’s quite rude, you don’t swear in poetry.”

And I’d respond, “Eat shit, kind sir, I want my verses to be free.”