Twitching, impatient

I am committed to agitation

Shifting from one foot to the other

I rise, do nothing, return


Unsettled inside

I despair

Press dread close at heart

As if I number among the haunted

I watch the shadows

Lingering pools of diversion

I anticipate the wraith

Receive only decimated shadow


Fetid, in my own stale air

I drift manically

Shrug, grimace, shout


Caged by indecision

I contemplate sleep

Tossing, turning

Uncomfortable in my own skin

I contemplate food

I am not hungry

Starving for movement

For freedom

The great expanse

Of fields caught in the mercurial season of Spring

Unseasonably cold here

Wet, I strain at my desk

Trying to rearrange my thought patterns

To press ink to paper

Transfer the muse but he is equally distracted

I think he’s flirting with my imagination

Deliberately firing me up

For no reason in particular


I commit to rebellion

Wrestling with him

He’s so damn selfish

Flaunting my words wantonly

Directed only my whim

Cheap slut

All his thrills from exposure

From the brutal fornication of thought

He’s an existential tease


(Nothing brilliant but this is how I feel FRUSTRATED)


4 thoughts on “A muse without reason

  1. You did a good job in putting into words your frustration. I was like that one day that I blamed my muse for sucking as a muse. It’s not the muses fault, the words just haven’t surfaced yet.

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