An ode to that mystical figure with whom all writer’s have a love/hate relationship.
In my mind’s eye I see him;
Lazing on some distant shore,
Warm breezes caressing his cinnamon skin
As my calls he chooses to ignore.
In disgust I ball up the paper,
And throw it into the trash.
I send out another plea for his help,
As my ideas continue to crash.
My muse is a heartless soul.
Only showing up when he deems fit.
As you can see by this little ode to him,
He was nowhere around when I wrote it.
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