My Muse is Amused

I don't care if I produce a bunch of really shitty poetry

It's just that these words flow freely out of me

And I know this might not be the right time for me

To let these thoughts form poetry

But of the things I control my muse is not one

She makes love to my mind and won't stop 'til she's done

I sometimes finish a poem only to start another one

'Cause in spite of the first climax she's only just begun

She can do things to me that I'll never understand

Her movement forces exclamations that are completely unplanned

Her greatest pleasure is the movement of my hand

And my pen on a page to record our last meeting

As she caresses my thoughts I can feel my heart beating

Faster and faster to catch up with her rhythm

She always brings new inspirations and I can't just dismiss them

And if I try to write when she's not around

I have to be sneaky for fear I'd be found

'Cause she's got quite the temper and can get really jealous

And when it comes to anger she can get overzealous

So most of the time I let her have her way

And I try to keep her happy to make sure that she'll stay

With me in the morning after nights when I'm too tired to write

And I simply have to say, "Baby, not tonight."

My muse is amused by the effort I put in

To every smell, sight and sound, down to the drop of a pin

Just hoping to find the right moment for our next rendezvous

To be inspired by a thought that rings true

So I catalogue moments of joy and of pain

So I'll have stories to tell her when we meet again

About love found, love lost, and love yet unknown

About the things that I've learned and the ways that I've grown

But sometimes I wonder how much she cares

When ages have past since the last time that we shared

I lose confidence and wonder what I must have done

For the rhythm and rhyme to have left my tongue

Lonely, lying there inside of my mouth

As if all inspiration had migrated south

And I'm left waiting for the arrival of spring

Hoping she'll come back on her beautiful wings

To touch my mind with her gentle affection

And direct my pen through a series of lessons

That teach a young schoolboy the methods of pleasure

That result from the use of an excellent measure

Of verse at the appropriate time

If only she'll revisit my mind

I would smoothly stroke the her curves with my pen

And a page to keep track of the sin

We commit in loving each other too much to wait

For our intimate moments to be approved of by fate

And sometimes these intimate feelings

Cannot be contained by four walls and a ceiling

So our shouts can be heard

In each little pen-stroke that forms a new word

That may someday be shouted at comparable levels

From a stage by a poet who's caught in the revels

Of the page-printed echoes of our ecstasy

Every time my muse visits me