I stand back, and light the fuse,
hoping, to awake my muse.
She could be found anywhere,
yet, when I call her, she's not there.

In field of clover, with no pen,
my muse flies to me again.
When I'm busy, hard a work,
she teases me, what a jerk.

Inspires me, with words sublime,
at the most inopportune time.
My girlfriend says, she's tired of,
my penning poems, while making love.

My muse, a sadist... clad in leather,
whipping words, in foulest weather.
Spiked heels, pressed upon my head,
so I'll remember all she said.

Late at night, while sound asleep,
she brings me words, I know won't keep.
It's worth another sleepless night,
to dance with her in pen's delight.

She's in my head, this fickle fairy.
Sometimes, with thoughts, dark and scary.
Just when I'm sure I hate her most.
she whispers words I proudly boast.


© May 2015, Michael J. Nappi