Without the Trimmings - My Muse Has Come

When inspiration pours forth one cannot afford to make excuses to the tune of "it is midnight and I really ought to sleep." No. One takes that inspiration and do with it whatever it is that can be done. Maybe whip, saute, smoke, grill or bake the juice of the thought. Whatever, as long as one does something.

My hands are possessed by a pink and yellow and magenta itch. It is a sweet pricking and oozing of word platelets dripping from the tip of my fingers prompting it to twitch and convulse and type incessantly on its own. To which I owe this malady matters not for I am grateful.

A great amount of time has passed since my writing muse has come a' visiting injecting me with this sweet rum for writing. What a relief! Intoxicating relief! Perhaps there is much to look forward to once again?

For this morning was a drab wake up to the harsh realities of this world. Seeing how ghastly cruel,  how stooped to barbarism humans can be had clouded any sense of sentiment I had for a good and brighter future. It is all dark and grey and senseless that I swear if I do not take it to my strength to color my world with its own bright, then this ominous monster of a dank darkness would cower me in. 

YOU who see me, you have set free  my captive muse from your blue jar of paradise. You are kind.

She has come with a poem and a song and a box of gift wrapped hope.
She prances with my thoughts and tussles me with strength.
Just in time, she has come. Such is the magic of the world