She tries
to confuse,
to make your words obtuse.
Twisting your metaphors
into balls of nothing,
to make your words sit silent
when the sounds should ring.
The anti-muse,
she laughs at the work you do,
points out the flaws in the words you use.
She paces around the room,
stomping feet
thudding
through the silence.
She sits
with sneered lips parted,
ready to impart
a spear tip of hurried words,
a flurry of verbal put downs,
a series of smearing frowns
and groans, echoing moans,
unhelpful tones.
Eyes roll inside, sighs in despise.
She never offers advice,
just tells you it's no good,
her yawns are never disguised.
She fills
the air with tension,
it swirls with stormy apprehension.
Screeching in the wind,
she screams
through your dreams,
corrupting your sleep,
crushing the peace.
belittling you.
She never lets you rest,
her barbs never cease.
She prods,
asking are you done yet?
Why don't you write better, quicker?
Write something that will connect.
Why not give up?
Try to write a book,
something else completely.
Take up a different hobby,
this is not the path you seek.
Don't get up on stage and try to speak.
She will make your voice fragile and weak.
Call you a freak, telling you that no one wants
to hear your pained squeaks.
She just wants you to follow the sheep,
try not to be unique.
If you listen to the anti-muse
then the outlook is bleak.
Thanks for reading
Please take a look at my new collection "Torn Pages"
100+ all new poems not shared here before.
https://tinyurl.com/KCtornpages
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