The fuss that comes
when I try to write,
the whine, the thrown-back head,
eyes scrunched tight,
mouth — unfortunately not —
puts into question the object
of putting pen to paper.
How can one reflect
on the day, the morning,
the glory of the heavens,
the tawdry side of the city
when one is saddled
with the near-squall
of the frustrated poetic muse?
Parenting a piece of literature
is a long-suffering, thankless task.
It most certainly is. Good comparison!
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Thank you! I thought it felt too much like parenting.
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You are welcome.
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I know that sound… but when she smiles at you, there’s nothing like it.
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Yeah, when she does. Although sometimes mine shows up in the form of a wolf. The smile is unnerving.
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and how do we feed such a problem? Accurate, Charley.
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Stick a nipple on a good red and let it suck! 🙂 Thanks, Z!
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a good red is tough to find
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Too true!
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Good one, Charley – I some days feel as if I’m parenting a host of tots, lol.
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Thank you! Yeah, we all have our struggles with “the muse.” Sometimes it’s like change the diaper, make the formula, and walk it around the living room. Sheesh!
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