Monday

 Answer to a writing prompt on the West Virginia Poetry Group:

Where does my creativity come from?

I’ve always thought my life would make a novel
With all my family’s foibles and exploits.
But I’ve put off the writing ‘til I’m older,
To keep from hurting loved ones I’d expose. 

I had no muse.

Then I awoke from drug-inflicted stupor,
Discovered dormant and intense desire.
Peccadilloes filled my thoughts,
Discretion was my byword,
Repeating the imprudence of my youth.

My muse was fiction.

So I began to write what I imagined
And even started living it a bit.
Life’s consistence was impassioned melancholy
Sating my body, discarding my soul.

Then I met my muse.

Dark, mysterious, twisted.
Passionate amusing and in pain.
I prodded, I persisted
I worked magic to gain his body
As he invaded my heart.
The heart he did not want
Attempted to discard
Clung to him
Despite my protests.

I told God I couldn’t handle
Giving all my love
To someone who despised it.
Fruitless gain.
But God said “Tough. He needs this.
Give him MY love.
He will accept it through no other vessel.
You are chosen.”

I fought
I cried
I stomped my feet.
I prayed
I lit a candle
Two or three.
He was the slowest beast
But he recovered.
Now his love gives me
What I’ve always needed
Wanted

Craved.
Now he fully comprehends
What he has gained.
My muse wrung words from me
Compelled to put my guts upon a page.
Now my heart rests.

Although if I have to wait until I’m 45 to get married,
I’ve threatened to kill him in his sleep.