Sometimes I work nights.
When the usual dull roar turns into a quiet whisper .
An occasional squeak on the linoleum tile.
A false hello here and there .
And what do I do in these quiet desolated hours? I write.
I write ferociously with the artificial lights blaring overhead,
And those artificial smiles brimming , overfed
But how can you blame me,
When inspiration is begging to be touched in just the right way.
Just itching, it is, to be fondled.
There it stands pleading with me,
It’s pouty pink lips formed in the shape of an O.
So in these late hours of loneliness I do what any normal person would do.
I seduce inspiration.
Just the way it wants to be seduced
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