The Muse

In which Sherlock has trouble with his concentration

<p>Sherlock sat in the armchair of his small and empty flat, comprised of a small stove with two burners, a table and chair, a coat rack, persian rug, and a twin sized bed. A song on the radio was humming through the thin walls, blurting out a blatantly happy song that made Sherlock want to gag.

The only thing that drew him to the flat in the first place was the large and rather inviting floor-to-ceiling window that dominated the whole wall. It was in need of a wash, but it still streamed soft, yellow, filtered light into the whole place that gave it a hazy, dreamlike mystique; something Sherlock thought would be immensely inspiring.

Sherlock was thinking. It had been almost a week since his writer's block had meddled with his latest dime-novel writing adventure, "the pink lady". (of course, Sherlock, being the scholar that he was, never wished to refer to his writing as something cheap or sensational. " I am a philosopher damnit, and i write about the deep mysteries of life, not about the lives of sluts that get gawked at by pubescent teenage boys!" he often said).

His long, spidery fingers drummed on the armrest of his chair. Internally, his mind was racing, trying desperately to come up with the next line of the third chapter. "THINK" he chanted over and over in his mind, racking his mind palace for something useful. The radio was still blurting out that damned happy song, as if it was well aware of sherlock's current state and wanted to torture him further. " I should never have rented this place" he thought. "SHUT UP!" he bellowed, banging his fists on the armchair. It was no use. the song kept on chanting "Dandy, dandy, where you gonna go now?". "Crist!" spat sherlock, lurching out of the chair. "I'm going out to have some coffee and a smoke" he spoke aloud. He grabbed his long black coat and grey hat off the coatrack, walked back to the table, snatching a half-empty pack of cigarettes, and stormed out.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry