muse

Oh why must pain be my muse
Why not sunshine and bunnies, it isn't funny
Why's it take jail to make me creative
Why not love and happiness, my lover's caress
the curve of her breast, the feel of her inner thigh
the way I sigh satisfied in the warmth of her inside
why not the glint of joy in her lovely brown eyes
why's it take anger and rage to put my pen to paper
why's the poetry only flow from me
when I'm depressed
why not in jest
why do I write like a scribe during lock down at night
in the dark by the windows light sitting on the toilet
why not a beautiful summers day, then I've nothing to say
why can't I acquiesce and express my delight
why only struggle and strife
why can't I celebrate with song in my heart
why oh why must I be a martyr for my art