Poem: Writing is a Fickle Thing

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Words don't come effortlessly
though it may seem like it.
There are days when they beckon
and days when they stay away.

Sometimes ink runs like blood
sometimes it is frozen like stone
I have to chip away at it
and write with the pieces.

If I wait until the mood strikes
it might not come at all
so I have to pound on the door
and wake it from slumber.

My muse is a cranky fairy
that must be bribed with coffee and sweets
but once she is settled
I can finally get to work.

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