Beginnings are easy– they taunt and they tease,

Ideas that flirt and promise to please.

Characters wink, plot twists beckon coyly,

And the next thing you know, you’re sucked in.

The first few chapters, everything’s great–

You and your muse on the world’s perfect date.

The candles are lit, champagne’s nicely chilled,

And you swear that you’ve found The One.

But about chapter five, things start to sour.

You sit down to write, get stood up for an hour.

The muse is still there but seems rather fickle,

But you make some excuses, press on.

About chapter twenty, the bottom falls out.

They constantly no-show– you swim in self-doubt.

“I’m not a good writer… These words are pure trash…

Why not just flip burgers instead?”

If you haven’t guessed yet, the “you” here is me,

As stuck and pathetic as a writer can be.

Fifty thousand words down, yet the plot fizzled out.

I sit here, a muse dumpee.

*A whine seems so much more dignified when you stick the word ode in front of it.