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My Muse My muse inspires me when I do not have a pen and paper. My muse inspires me when I am driving and cannot write. My muse inspires me when I am too tired to write. I wish my muse was more accommondating. Sometimes my muse gives me ideas, but I can only form them in a mediocre way on paper. They are formed nicely in my head. I think no one can see the gensis there. My muse is a woman, but sometimes a man--young, old and in between. A deep thinker, morose at sometimes, happy at best. My muse is not wealthy, which is ironic for I have never known wealth. My muse just now told me he might inspire me to write about a wealthy gentleman. I don't know how, since he has never known wealth. Sometimes he thinks he is so clever. But that always remains to be seen. My muse isn't a certain color, unless the color various will do. He isn't fat nor thin. He or she loves to bite into a meaty poem though. My muse laughs at me at times for not writing when I should. And cries for me at other times when I do. She also wishes I had better penmanship since I write in longhand before I type. My muse wishes I would venture out on a limb once in a while. But I was pushed off a diving board when I was nine and fought with all my might to break the surface,and once I made it to the edge of the pool the instructor couldn't see my tears because my face was wet. But unlike me who never returned to the diving board my muse keeps coming back for more. |
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