Vickie Weaver:
My Muse Is Killing Me
I need help.
My muse hates me.
Hate is a strong word,
but it fits here.
Her name is Flo,
short for Floribunda.
Maybe you've seen her:
short and dumpy,
Buddy Holly glasses,
torn jeans and birks,
has grunge down pat.
She tromps around whistling
the KitKat Candy bar song,
pops her gum when
I'm getting ready to write
something brilliant.
I know writers with
kindly, devoted muses
who gently lead them
to meadows filled
with butterflies.
Not Flo. She trips me
at every turn,
enjoys watching me cry.
Here's the lullaby she
forced me to write
for a poem prompt:
Baby bunnykins
apple of my eye
cover you with kisses
and never let you cry.
I'd like to tell you
I had a choice in writing
this, but I did not.
If Flo is anything, she's pushy.
She gets an idea in her head,
and that's it. Nothing else will do.
I need inspiration, motivation,
a guiding light. I'd fire
Flo if I could. Somebody,
help me, please!
3 comments:
Oh, I really love this. A pushy muse! Priceless. But always nice you have someone to blame for what you wouldn't have written otherwise. I have a few poems I'd like to blame Flo for. LOL.
Really amazing... and so creative. I love it... and I understand those stubborn muses.
Ha ha! Sometimes I think I skip things for a reason. I saw your title yesterday, and skipped it, because I COULD NOT WRITE last night.
This made me laugh several times, Marianne. I loved it, and so needed the laugh. Thank you, thank you. Tell Flo, that I still like her. LOL
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