I wrote this poem in 2001, after a friend asked if I'd ever written a song or poem to my muse.

The Muse

She speaks to me from shadows in the corners
Her voice is like the sound of running water
She walks among the celebrants and mourners
And chooses those who have, and haven't sought her

She speaks in tiny whispers when I seek her
And then, when I do not, her voice is thunder!
And sometimes. if I've nerve to dare bespeak her
She will not let me rest nor pause to wonder

Once inspiration strikes I'm at her mercy
I cannot fight it, that would lead to madness
But if I let her use my hands, let her see
Through my eyes, I can gain relief from sadness

For, once I let her take me, I'm transported
Into a world where music flows like velvet
I sometimes feel as though I'm being courted
By creatures of some breed I cannot tell yet

'til, caught within their claws, I am enraptured
By visions and by rythmns from the darkness
And swiftly, I forget that I've been captured
As, straining, I can almost hear...Oh! Hark! Yes!

The words are clear and pure, their meaning faultless
I strive to write them down before they scatter
Before she drops me back into that haltness,
That fog which usu'lly clouds my grey matter

I know some think she uses me unfairly
In fact, I've heard it said that she's a 'Muther'!
And oft I think that I survive just barely
But still, she is my muse, I'd have no other.


I think she thrives on depression. Most of the best stuff that I've written has come from depression and pain. When I feel her touch, the best thing I can do is grab pen and paper, and get out of the way.