Muses

Sitting quietly on my shoulder that imp,

That little creature I cannot escape,

That demanding liar does nothing but

Pester and provoke me to madness.

Where most have only one, I have

The three who rule my heart, mind,

And spirit, poking me on to do my

Duty as an author and as an artist.

“Give me a moment!” I shout into

The darkness as they push and shove

Wishing me to hurry, never to tarry

Or to give thought.

“Hurry!” they shout, the blasted swords

Cutting into my skin as they push me

Along, those damned imps of

Art, the liars, the hateful creatures.

My muses, why do you hate me so?

Such temperamental things are you,

The three of you fighting more and

More, I am only in the middle.

I suppose I must, it is my duty, the

One thing I am put on the world to do,

To please you, I have to force myself

To write.

Does that please you my beloved imps

Of muses, my darling creatures which

Beat me with inspiration and love?

Have I done well?

Only you are to know, those of you

Who see nothing more than me yelling

At myself, knowing only that if I fail

I fail no one but my muses and myself.