My Muse

My love, precious love, she provides me with the muse I never wanted and didn’t know I needed
If making me cry words onto the page through pain and suffering is her goal then in this she has succeeded
 
Once our abundant love and seemingly endless beauty provided me with all prolific inspiration
When happy words effortlessly leapt from my heart and onto the page without thought or hesitation
 
The salad days are still happy memories of carefree love and the bliss of our infatuation
Now our life together is more work than play and each day brings tears and perspiration
 
Young love has faded and now our relationship is strained like a towel that is tugged and twisted
And I like an unmanned ship set a sail in the ocean overcome by waves half sunk I listed
 
My soul crushed and wishful fantasies exploded without much hope for change
The die is cast, my fate sealed so I write words unlike life helpless to rearrange
 
My muse provides me with endless subject matter which I out of frustration rhyme
Thankless do I appreciate the gift she gives turned into words and played out over time
 
Both sick and tired of pain and discontent the written word has helped me through
A therapy of sorts I guess for my wounded heart that she has battered black and blue
 
She reads my work like a fastidious editor with a critical eye right from the very start
She is too close to the subject and by nature doesn’t enjoy full appreciation for my art
 
My muse catches every grammatical error and lines that to her don’t make sense
Like when I suddenly change from first person to third or from past to present tense
 
And looking back now would I change anything or have it any other way, I suppose
But commitment to my muse forces me to continue to write out my life in poetry and in prose