Some say that inspiration
is the work of muses in our heads.
My muse is stubborn, obnoxious, dull.
He throws about the papers
in the office of my brain.
“Give me inspiration!” I demand.
He laughs and takes a nap.
I can’t be expected to do his job!
Look at how he’s wrecked them,
all my good ideas.
Now, never-finished stories sit
(I suspect he ate the ends).
When I put a pen to paper,
my muse becomes quite riled.
He snatches everything I might have used
and hides away in some deep cavern.
I think he must be minuscule
to do damage so tremendous.
His hair is long and blue and spiky,
And his eyes a scheming green.
I asked for beauty, emerald forests,
Instead, he gives me this.
Does his ego know no bounds!?
When will his antics cease!?
I guess the poem wasn’t bad…
But he still won’t get a raise!

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