The Joy of Writing

Papyrus cannot hold the lifeblood of words
spilled from even a half-full glass;
the empty half housing dreams unmanifest,
ideas yet to be considered,
and races not yet run.
I will take the ink blotter
to the sticky, red page,
mop up the edits off the floor
and combine these sanguine liquids
with Saturnian whimsies
and a bottle of wry whiskey.

I let the muse in through my crown.
Their titillating suggestions
thrill and humble me,
but mostly they tickle my spinal fluid
starting from the inside top of my cranium,
going all the way to the tip of my tailbone.

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