Something was brewing inside, steeping like a strong tea. However the paper remained blank, and the pressure to write was building. It is there, I can feel it, but like a lion, it waits ready to pounce at only the precise moment. Meanwhile, the frustration builds, sometimes leaking out in mysterious ways. Crying, screaming, kicking, or just being still, these are the things that keep the monster at bay. Only the realization of a good poem, essay or novel will slay this beast within me. And the only way to come to this realization is through inspiration. So I launch this question into the vast universe, "Where are you my muse?"
Just throwing something out there, hope it doesn't sound stupid...
~D
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