My Muse (poem)

Once in a while, Muse grabs me good,
pulls my hair, my shirt, my foot
strangles, nips and tortures me
(I cannot stand that comfortably)
I write down all the words she speaks
on paper though my pencil squeaks.

They are not funny, bad as well.
There is no rests and you can tell.
She neither stops at night nor day
until she’s finished all the way.
But stunned I sometimes stare and stand
with a poem in my hand!
 

Katharina Gerlach, June 21st, 2009