The Collected Poetry

I, A Meager Poet, Undeserving of His Muse

I

When I am bruised and tongue tied as I write

So comes to me an angel of my love.

She smiles sadly for the millionth time

And asks me what exactly I think of

For I appear so lost, she says to me

Surely I need her touch. And it is true.

She kisses me, and I relax, and see

My angel creating my soul anew

But if I work again I lose her here

She shall go some other place. And yet I

Am inspired, with her great energy

And beauty I am fulfilled. So I write.

One half longs to be with my love, but then,

My poet wins and I must work again.

II

With my head against her shoulder, eyes closed,

I breathe so deeply all but it are still

The world with my lover is new composed

This world is enough for but two to fill

And a perfect unending love is ours

She speaks so sweet, I long to hear her talk

As we while away the quiet hours

At once, I feel upon my soul a knock

As if the demon of writing seeks me

I must chain myself to the desk, then

The thoughts that burst out uncontrollably

I try and catch a few on paper when

I would much sooner stay longer with her

But she understands I will come after.

III

With comfort to my tired eyes, she soothes

And I once again can think without pain

Encouraging me to write my weak truths

She guides my hand towards writing poems again

And every now and then I must thank her

For the way without her I am nothing

My heart overfills with love and splendor

And I want only her to join my loving.

Not time, nor words mean anything to me

Just that we can stay together as two

For she makes me feel utter joy truly

She gives the entire world meaning to

I; A meager poet undeserving

Of his muse, who helps him in his writing.