Calliope

Staring at the blank paper
With a pen between my finger and thumb.
I wanted to write
But, I think the Muse has left me.

Could it be my meaningless gabble,
Could it be my false rhymes?
Whatever has offended her,
My papers are left empty.

May be I should search for her,
Maybe I should call out her name.
She might even come back from her stroll
With another dramatic entry.

But, what if she doesn’t
And I am left with nothing
But this void
And did something stupid in my spree?

Like running down the road
Sleep, smoke, or drink
Now really,
How bad could it be?

Unless I pierce every ounce of my flesh
Introspect in my boredom
Only to find
She’s hid from me, in my own inside.

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