For Her

I write because my muse refuses to let me sleep
She's a devil, that girl with flowing fire red hair
She pushes me from my bed leaving me a fleshy heap
And warns me to write or else... and a wrathful stare

I write because my muse challenges my creativity
She lounges on my couch and yawns at my troubled tries
"Why don't you get away from your cliche proclivity?"
I bury my head in frustration and she rolls her eyes

I write because my muse wraps her stubby arms around my leg
And refuses to leave me be until I have written what's good
And I surrender, knowing she's broken my spirit like an egg
So for my muse, I write and I write 'til my hand is heavy as wood

I write because when I lose my muse I'm lonely
And when I type I hear her tap at my window door
And she begs to come in to help with writing only
But she remains to keep me from becoming a bore

I write because my muse brings smiles to those that read
Because she laughs at the right places and dares to impress
And she leaves a ribbon of connection that leads me to exceed
And the writer's block I once had leaves me behind with no distress.


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