Must I write when the world is black and everyone’s lulled to sleep?
May I not sit with muse when the sun ejects his shards of light?
Do I have to be present with my muse at night?
Or is sadism he’s delight?
For I can only ever write
When there is an absence of the light…
Is my muse a demon?
Is my muse so dark?
Is my muse only really having a lark?
For my mind can’t settle to sleep at night
It only thinks and plays
This insomnia a writer has, keeps us in our daze
A tragedy we know so well
We write when he sits and tells
We can’t be free of our muse
We cannot sit and choose
What to do and when and how
We can only sit in the boat he sails
And lose another day
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