surface for air
through the haze of sleep
feeling as though
no one really understands
what it means
to be controlled
by the Muse
and to be blocked,
the overwhelming need
to see words
floating across
the blank page,
the thirst to find
the twist of words
to feed the Muse,
to feel nourished again,
drunk on the joy
of writing a poem,
a few pages of a story
you thought had drowned,
died a most painful death
only to walk among you again
with the hope to inspire
the next turn of a phrase
Copyright © 2009 byShawn Murray
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