After a while,
I gulp down my uncertaintiesTo wield my quill, and strike a note.
Yes, strike a tune it does -
My muse always does sing out a scream
And choke me down, often.
Yet, born out of my soul, I cradle
the monster; holding it in.
I fear for its existence,
Lest you want harm to befall
And celebrate the joy of a demise.
Maternal empathy longs to shout
And attack, to protect a sliver of my genes
But, every time I try to cuddle close
I find myself bitten hard.
A bleeding vaporous pain engulfs
And I hear shrieks of I-warned-you.
Yet, I cradle my tears
And kiss my muse soft,
Hoping it would quit resisting me
Praying you could decipher
Its thoughts, like I do,
And not tear its limbs apart
Screaming of insanity.
Oh, my muse, my insane muse.
I fear its plight,
And once again I strangulate it
In the prison of my soul-
And wipe the parchment blank.
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