again with the fight as I set out to write

a fresh poem about soft light or joy

but I’m stopped at the brink of each

inspired think by my muse, a terminal boy

my muse is a man, but a rogue and a cad

and he’s crass and insanely obscene

an incurable loner, a chronic s-t-o-n-e-r

manipulative, taunting and mean

a confessed chocoholic, hell, he’s diabolic

he will give you the ride of your life

he doesn’t mince words, but he’ll dice up

your heart then proceed to lick the knife

demanding, exacting, over-reacting,

explosive, contriving and cool

he dwells in surreal unrealistic ideal,

toys with me as if I’m a fool

he has no direction, withholds his affection

he’s confidant, cocky, confused

deliriously serious, sarcastic, impervious

occasionally mildly amused

gentle, accepting, embracing, relenting

I could use a muse like this instead

I would write about sunshine,

cool breezes and springtime

if I could just get him out of my head

01/13/2003

Posted on 12/01/2017
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