Oh, What Cruel Games You Play
by Megan Guimbellot
Sometimes I'm sure that my muse deserts me for extended periods of time and disappears into the great unknown for cocktails and adventures while I am stuck in this blank space of day-to-day living//I know that she returns in the night just to fill my head with bright images and all of the right accompanying words/but these rhymes never quite make it until morning//they disappear in a rush with the first fluttering of eyelashes//
When I am driving, or without a pen, she whispers masterpieces and blows them with a kiss into my distracted mind/But once I'm home, pen in hand, I can never find the corner of my mind where the words have chosen to land and they remain hidden to collect dust, buried under mental lists, times and dates and names of people and places/thoughts and worries and promises to be kept///
But every glorious nowandthen my muse lets me in one something brilliant when I am home and curled up alone, with nothing else to do but pen the words I've been waiting for//but when this happens I usually just fall asleep...
Author's Note: Inspiration is so fleeting.
Posted on 02/10/2010
Copyright © 2021 Megan Guimbellot
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Charlie Morgan on 02/10/10 at 10:02 PM|
...megan, you describe so well the muse and what/what not we do with her offerings...she does the very, exactly very same thing to me...touche!
|Posted by Therese Elaine on 02/11/10 at 02:24 AM|
Hahaha Fate isn't the only fickle bitch, it seems!!!