My Muse is a slave-driver

My Muse of Poetry

is a real slave-driver, she’s a ball-breaker,

she’s a chainsaw-massacre, breathing down my neck.

My Muse

thinks she is both the bullseye and the target.

She whispers nonsense into my ears,

until there is nothing else

I can even hear-except the drone,

of a rambling ancient old Crone.

My Muse of Poetry,

is a real slave-driver, she’s a ball-breaker,

she’s a chain-saw massacre, breathing down my neck.

And I cannot hold anything against her.

Inspiration, however random is still

something akin

to the answers of a prayer.

Without my Muse,

I am nothing more than a

babbling fool.

Poetry-this writing Life,

it eats the good ones first,

then the young ones,

folks like me she leaves for dessert

a mushy mess of a chocolate brownie

a mushy mess of a middle-old aged woman

a clown, who never properly learned

the art and skill

of juggling.

My Muse, is a slave-driver.

My Muse of Poetry

is a real slave-driver, she’s a ball-breaker,

she’s a chainsaw-massacre, breathing down my neck.

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