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Muse Make Me Late
by Dan Linn
Must inspiration wait to make me late?
She serves me cold dinner on my plate.
Desperate to make something of shit,
I make horrible disgusting mess of it.
Like that last image dried upon the page,
scrawled paints by fingers of childhood age,
My art spits and farts and slobbers wet,
My hand and pen no magic in them yet.
Hidden here in all this force fed rhyme,
what I thought I'd not squeeze out in time,
For this muse's inspiration likes me lame,
and having writ just likes to use my name.
08/17/2013 Posted on 08/17/2013
Copyright © 2025 Dan Linn
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gilly Wigley on 08/18/13 at 06:28 PM SO good! |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 08/19/13 at 03:41 AM What a great opening line. It gets us off to the races nicely. |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 08/19/13 at 12:55 PM LOL! Clever use of rhyme to express what all poets go through from time to time with "the muse." |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 08/20/13 at 04:25 AM Very funny - speaks clearly to me of the messiness of writing, when I think I've got a great idea and it just crashes and burns, or the magic when it comes together. Great last line. |
| Posted by LK Barrett on 08/24/13 at 12:31 AM ...sigh...that muse is such a dirty, flirty tease...but just when we think we're doing it on our own...she stubs a cigarette out with a peep-toe red leather tranny-pump and whirls to go make mischief elsewhere, absolutely pristine in her certainty that we are watching that heart-shaped behind until she vanishes in the distance...sigh...love this write, thank you, Danny...lk |
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