Artist, supernal, moss, slippery, ecstasy, lake, palliative, perplexing, wren, drench, graphic, agitate
When I tumble into the lake of creativity,
from the perilous, slippery moss on its shores,
it always instills a feeling of ecstasy,
to create is to be something more.
My muse awakens, the supernal being,
and fills me with so many graphic words.
She whispers ‘You’re an artist, you make words sing,
it’s your destiny to not go unheard’.
In the lake of creativity you do not have a choice:
you must swim or go under, all drenched.
I cannot sleep, with her agitated voice
as it echoes inside my head.
She is both overwhelming and perplexing, my muse
I must write just to palliate the pain!
To find relief, find succor, from internal abuse
I write again and again and again.
When the mania lifts, like a herd wrens,
that flap their wings and take to the skies,
the muse leans over, says ‘I’ll see you again’
and lifts me out of the lake as I die.
I have been diagnosed with the milder form of bipolar disease (or manic-depression if you prefer) called bipolar II, but I do recognize that some of my prolific creativity coincides with periods of hypomania (a less intense form of mania). My experience of my muse is therefore not quite as extreme as what I’ve described above.