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Writing poetry isn’t as easy as it sounds,
Searching for your muse is like looking for a lost puppy,
It’s playful and impish and not obedient to your orders.
No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try,
It always manages to outwit and outsmart you,
And somehow dig its way out underneath the fence.
It leaves you tugging on your hair,
As ruby flames erupt from you ears in anger,
And makes you stomp out of the house, leash in hand.
You run through fields of tall grass,
Bright, vivid wildflowers tugging at your clothes,
Their soft, velvety petals leaving pollen on your skin.
You run past a night time scene,
The shimmering moonlight reflected on the water,
With fireflies blinking constantly like nightlights.
After what seems forever, and you finally stop and rest,
With your legs burning and legs on fire,
Your muse finally decides to appear.
Its tongue is lolling with a twinkle in their eyes,
Chewed-up pencils are at its feet,
And eraser shavings litter the ground.
By this time, you’re exhausted from the mental stress,
And you simply flop down on the grass,
Too tired to even bother writing now.
The muse notices your mood and its shape changes,
Slinking forward on catty paws and paper dangling from their mouth,
They rub against your legs, telling you they’re ready to serious.
You take the paper and a tarnished pencil from the ground,
And you start to write with you muse sitting on your shoulder,
Pointing out mistakes or making helpful suggestions when needed.
Once the work is done, the two of you share a sigh of relief,
And you go back the way you came, sharing a sense of companionship,
That is, until your muse decides to run away from you again