The words won’t come.
Sulky as an obstinate child,
standing in the corner with a frown.
I cajole with candy and sweets.
The muse shakes her head, an angry no.
I want to shake her.
I am back at my typewriter,
Staring at the piece.
“You know, it has potential,” the editor told me and
smiled. “But needs work.”
I smiled back and worked on it a week.
I’ll swear it’s worse than before.
Damn it. I pull out the paper so
I can rip it to shreds.
The little girl in the corner laughs and
shakes a finger at me. “No, no, no.”
“You might use it somewhere else.”
Somewhere else is exactly where I’d rather be,
then staring at this stupid machine while the ghosts
of words whisper at me in voices that refuse to cooperate.