Staying up tonight, preparing for night shift;
Wandering aimlessly across the internet.
My mind is feeling fuzzy, incoherent thoughts;
Drinking an orange soda, waiting on my muse.
Words bubble, churn in my soul; I feel them;
But nothing is coming, only these babblings.
This process is one of trust, for I have no talent;
When my muse stirs the waters of my soul, I write.
Some folks speak to me about publishing;
I know that these poems could never be sold.
They all come from the ocean of soul within;
As my muse dips out a portion, a measure.
I understand that at any moment my muse
Could pack up and leave me without a voice.
Poetic laryngitis would smother my soul;
Silence would be all that would come forth.
My pen empty of ink, empty of words, empty of soul;
Without my muse my tongue becomes still.
I wonder tonight why she visited me in the first place;
Why has she stayed and written from within me?
Questions without answer, only gratitude remains;
Thankful for whatever time I have, whatever words flow out.
I feel peaceful now, knowing it is all beyond my control;
As this gift from the soul I appreciate at midnight.
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