My Muse
Pen poised in mid air,
Hair all askew,
Forehead creased in bewilderment
Eyes searching for you,
Waiting for inspiration to strike
Oh my muse, where do you hide?
Pencils chewed to a mangled pulp
The waste basket brimming,
The man in my head is dropping dead
After 40 miles of running;
Still not a shred of poetry around,
Not a wretched idea he found!
Is it the sadness in my heart
The hopeless days, restless nights,
That stops the words from flowing
As freely as I would like!
Is my tearful vision so blurred
That my blinded soul hasn't stirred?
But neither the laughter on my lips,
Nor the lilt in my sound,
Seemed to bring me any closer
To writing out my song.
How desperate I am to write
Is it misery or gaiety that my muse dislikes!
Tired, drained, desolate and blue,
I curse my dry and empty mind,
Try as I did to milk it for words
There's only a blankness that I find.
The spectre of failure hangs like a pall
Over my head, ready to fall!
Down went my dream of being a bard
In the waves my sorrow I drown,
Like a boneless creature of the sea I lie,
Flowing with the eddying waters around.
Then, majestically, from the ocean, my muse did rise
On the air my song will dance tonight!
YOU ARE READING
The Poetical Musings Of a Gypsy
PoetryMy thoughts wander, unfettered like a gypsy, into mysterious lands of feelings, fantasy and fun, and stop at will in places that touch my heart. It is these random thoughts that form the basis of this book of poetry.
