A muse can be a fickle sprite,
the hint of genius but no full light,
which leaves one in the quandry of filling in the gaps.
A labour of love and of desire,
to write is like a burning fire,
but flame can't fully stem the darkness, chaps.
And so one labors in repetition,
Insanity of one's own volition,
for ideas bright can't fight the night without the artist's labour.
Like any deed of any size,
a point reached is tiring and truly tries
even the dedicated and lover through the trials of love's favor.
So like tasks necessary but menial,
One forces oneself to work and label
such deeds as salaried time in the business of the writing.
But lo! It needs to be chosen,
Lest in one mind it is frozen,
and denied the further readership and thereby lack in citing.
