OW, MY MANGLED MUSE

Lost in writer's cell block 3,
the green mile of my written indiscretions,
searching for a jolt or jump start
to my weary muse, seldom used.
A poetry blog surfaces offering
refuge for that tired muse,
a home for worn phrases and ideas.
So the poet emerges, writing verses,
a rondeau here, a sestina there;
pantoum and villanelle, going to hell
for the sake of redemption,
not to mention all this haiku
I swore I'd never do,
being brought to bear on
this need to be expressive,
quite excessive, progressively
oppressed but, none the less,
a man whose words explode from his head
spraying his page with
the shrapnel of sardonic wit,
ere to wit, a spastic fit
of poetry that spans from
April until the twelfth of never,
cascading and parading
the sense of whether
the work will find
it's natural conclusion,
giving the illusion
that break time is over.
A writer sentenced to
a lifetime of solitary refinement,
a poet, with more things to say
than there are hours in a day.