The sake of art

There is a poet living in my head.
It must be by mistake,
he may not have found the attic room
next door that is for rent.

He drinks a lot at nights,
keeping me from my sleep,
singing sobbing Russian songs
and playing Armenian music
on an instrument I don’t know.

I am glad he leaves me alone by seven
so the stuff I need to do can be done.
But by the time I have my coffee break
he starts mumbling.

I can’t do anything about it but write,
bring what he says into lines
and he doesn’t pay rent
so I suffer tremendously,
all for the sake of art.


Comments on: "The sake of art" (5)

  1. Wow! Brilliant!

  2. But wouldn’t we miss him (or her) if he (or she) did move away permanently? This is a wonderful personification of the muse that doesn’t want to leave us … hopefully not!

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