My muse is a chameleon, it changes to suit –
colourful, capricious, its point is quite moot.
When I need it I feed it, then pat it and say,
“I want to do it my way, now go off and play.”
My muse is delirious, mysterious, precarious,
dismal, delightful, nefarious and hilarious.
It comes and it goes, on a whim and a prayer;
when I really want it, sometimes it’s not there.
My muse is a lover; he turns up in my bed –
he touches my heart with the words that are said.
He has power in the shower when I think I’m alone,
and his mind fits with mine, from a laugh to a groan.
My muse is a flower, tree, river, or bird –
they each will help me to find the right word
to portray my connection to nature with feeling,
to praise its glory with my senses reeling.
My muse is divine and uplifting and pure
and also chaotic and horrid, like it’s rolled in manure.
My muse is a crazy mixed up kid
having a constant battle between ego and id.
My muse gets confused and can be quite manic,
especially with deadlines – it gets in a panic.
So if this poem’s rough, what more can I say?
My muse said, “Stuff it! You’re on your own today!”
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