When the Muse gets her whip out, it's true that I might
Write four or five poems in one frenzied night
And wake up the next morning, feel light as a breeze,
Then go days and not write one. Am I out of ideas?
I worry, sound the bottom of moments of doubt,
But aren't doubts, fears, and worry worth writing about?
One though leads to another; often, rhyme follows rhyme.
Then the Muse gets her whip out; I start making time.
Write four or five poems in one frenzied night
And wake up the next morning, feel light as a breeze,
Then go days and not write one. Am I out of ideas?
I worry, sound the bottom of moments of doubt,
But aren't doubts, fears, and worry worth writing about?
One though leads to another; often, rhyme follows rhyme.
Then the Muse gets her whip out; I start making time.
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