The muse reclaims my soul

drives me forth to find survival.

Again, I can not not write.

My muse shows no mercy,

no freedom from expression.

No way to calm the soul without

the explosion of thought, emotions and

semi-conscious expression.

The muse curses that which sustains me;

substance, water, focus and sleep.

"McBeth doth murder sleep" ....

and so the ancients go round and round

inside my head until myself pours out

among the pages;

just a touch of insanity

and a touch of desperation.

Desparation for survival -- to outlive

the curse that rumbles through my being.

The curse of an ungratful muse

a muse who shows no mercy;

No mercy 'til the curse is run.

My muse.... my lifeline and my curse