She’s gentle as a ton on a toenail,
thoughtful as pie in the sky,
she opens up space by gettin’ in my face,
My response, universally tongue-tied.

I storm my way through my anger,
then whimper my way through denial,
acceptance comes best after pounding my
chest,
before blessed with acquittal at trial.

So I try it her way just for giggles,
certain it’ll all come to naught,
Then, surprised every time when that voice
sounds like mine,
and I find some fresh food for thought.

She can’t string a phrase for a nickel,
Couldn’t write a song for a dime,
Yet her influence yields a look and a feel,
revealing what we’ll later call mine.

I’ve no idea how I got so lucky
to have a muse in my life,
She’s a blessing that stings and and a
punishment that brings
insight that cuts like a knife.

Her incisions rarely fester,
her surgeries leave almost no scar
and I can say with a smile that after a while
who notices the dents in a car?

Rue the writers who, muse-less,
attempt to transcribe what they see,
The best they’ll achieve couldn’t help but
displease
every reader except Mr. Me.

And who am I to excuse you,
your trespasses as well as your airs?
I’m a writer who’d still be a wannabe shill,
if you, my muse wasn’t there.

So smear your hatchet with honey,
heft your hammer with pride,
I need the abuse of a well-tempered muse
who refuses to let lemmings lie.

The truth, they say can be freeing,
and it hurts when encountering lies,
but the truth about truth couldn’t stand behind
ruse,
so my muse refuses to hide.

You’re there even when I’m not worthy,
and I’m rarely worthy, my sweet.
I’m appreciative, though, of the care that you
show
When eviscerating my latest conceit.

©2012 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: Muse