She draws for her inspiration
Looking at the slice of paper,
And above her hairline shows beads of perspiration,

Among the many layers,
That her mind shuffles,
Lays her thought in bags
Of duffle,
Heavy are the thoughts that sag,
Upon her weary consciences,

Her pen is positioned just above,
The muse mustn't want it,
Even though she gives her a mental shove,

Time ticks in the distance,
Yet her mind screams,
Resistance,

Now its only in her dreams,
That She sees herself in the spotlight,
With a signed edition,
Of a copyright
Petition,

Her many titles,
Of years and years,
Subtitles,
The fears and tears,
Books and Poems,
Written very young,
In her dimly lit home,
Where the inspiration had come,

So she sits there,
In the darkness of the night,
Window open for the fresh air,
She waits to write,

The words she knows are inside,
But remain dormant,
Deep they hide,
She needs some format,
To express herself,

What is wrong with me?
Where is my golden muse?
Where can she be?
What a waist of use,

Gone, Gone she is too far gone

~Spindel"01"