My pissed off Muse

I cannot write
tonight.

My muse
has taken flight,
abandoned me
fled far away,
and largely, I suppose,
because I use
with constancy
a cherished verb as if
a noun,
and how I get my tenses mixed,
and fail as if illiterate
to make the number
of my action words agree
with subjects that I name.
 
She frowns upon
such glaring infelicities
of speech
and stays my hand,
my reach,
for words,

and calls my grammar gaffes
an insult to the craft she would bestow
on those who falsely say
they strive
all in her name
for artistry.

She’s miffed,
and rightly so,
for I’ve subjected,
tortured, too,

      (and do it still
      repeatedly,
      so heedlessly,
      and even after I’ve been shown
      again and then again
      the error
      of my badly Englished ways,
      and asked to stop until,
      I’ve learned what’s wrong
      and what is right stylistically)  

her treasures of the tongue
to woe.