The muse sits in the corner
of my room; eyes like
vacant saucers.
I sit at my writing desk,
grasping for an image, a concept,
a sentence. Anything.
Nothing comes.
My mind is like this room,
empty, with an occasional draft.
“It’s up to you,” says the Muse,
heckling me from the corner.
“Oh, really?” I ask. “Because,
I’m sitting here at my writing desk
and you’re sitting there
and I’m looking at a blank page
and you’re gazing into the creative abyss
and nothing is happening.
So, who’s fault is this, dear muse?”
She smiles.
Like how one does at a foolish child.
She smiles.
Back to the blank page.
Oh, Christ.
Back to the blank page.
The muse taps my shoudler
I look up at her.
She says, still smiling,
“I can’t guarantee you
magic everyday. Don’t you
think it’s a bit presumptuous
to think I can, or
will?”
Then she all but vaporizes into
thin air,
except for that knowing smile.
It lingers in the middle of the room,
suspended. Teeth and lips sway
like a cobweb in the breeze.
Soon it is gone, too.
I get back to work.
With the muse out of my hair,
I can finally write this poem.
Tylor James 