MUSE

Each writer born must have a muse,    
Or so I’m told, for if they do,  
And if they should, do they know how    
To let it in or haven’t found    
    
A way to hear it whispering    
Like mine, who tells me everything,    
And always watches after me    
To heed the way I ramble free.    
   
For years before I touched a pen,    
It’s always loved the little wren    
That plays, and sees me in this way,    
Both in the dark and light of day.    
   
And when I don’t know what to say,  
It doesn’t coddle me per se.  
In fact the muse is very wise    
Unlike myself when I surmise,    
   
And get in trouble; to the point,    
For when it sees I’m out of joint    
It doesn’t wear dark robes to judge    
Or let’s me hang, it doesn’t budge.    
   
And never does it find me dull,    
To serve a life without a lull;    
This poet’s mind is very full    
And that’s because the brain is mine.    
   
No other like it will you find;    
I never seek, or gravitate.    
Just like the charge it motivates,    
The muse is on my family tree;    
   
A special branch some will agree.    
For what it knows is every truth    
Since time of birth & from my youth,    
It doesn’t need to pull a tooth.    
   
It doesn’t care for rational,    
It loves me unconditional.    
From rising moon to setting sun    
The Muse, the Mind & I are One.