Run! Its Poetry!

OK, be warned - this post contains mature language. Or, rather, immature language. In any event, its not exactly work-safe. So be warned.

This came about in a discussion with Scarlett about the nature of the muse. Many viewpoints portrays the muse as a positive force. I beg to disagree. I thought about it, wrote this down, lost it, found it, carried it around in my shirt pocket a couple days, thought about it some more, then put it here.

My muse is right bloody bastard
Slouch-backed, leering, gutter-mouthed
He insults strangers,
- Snubs my friends
- Farts in envelopes
He has led me into the deep woods
And abandoned me, repeatedly,
Leaving me no map or compass
Only an empty lunch bag

My muse is screaming bitch-queen
Possessive, demanding, horrid
Maxes out my cards
- Make me think of her during
- Meetings, work, sex
She's dumped me in the pool’s deep end
Each time assuring me
I could make it to safety
Once I worked the manacles loose

My muse is a haughty, ugly creature
I deserve no more credit in its eyes
Than the general’s horse owns the victory
My muse looks forward to the day
When it straddles my tombstone
And tells everyone else
How they got it wrong

More later,