Muses are fickle
They seduce with wild abandon
Then leave in the middle of the night
Take flight
Leaving nothing but scent and stain
So you pick up your favorite writing tool
Whisper a prayer
Hope for a benediction
When inspiration doesn’t flow
You force yourself to spread the words
Sordidly
But a forced poem is like an arranged marriage
Awkward
Unknown
Artificial
As for love it may grow over time
Didn’t carry you to the altar though
Better to wait for that floozy
Who runs around inspiring the neighbors
Leaving you to wear horns
Knowing that she’ll return
With a poetically transmitted disease
And an encouraging word
Amen
David Trudel © 2012
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Reblogged this on Susan Daniels Poetry and commented:
Are you guys following David yet? You should be, if you are not. This was a GREAT read.
to true.. thanks for expressing it. Awesome
Thank you for visiting and for the kind words.
This was really good David. Especially the poetically transmitted disease bit.
Thanks Trent. I’m having fun here and sometimes that shows through.
Here’s to fun. That’s what it’s all about.
awesome. love, love, loved it!
Thank you so much!
“A forced poem is like an arranged marriage” Yeah, even worse…as the painful consommation of it!
Thanks Noel. And the morning after…
leaving you to wear horns…! great line. a strong poem David, thank you.
Thanks Jane!
Powerully written with fascinating imagery
Thanks for stopping by and for the kind words.