My muse is a vicious creature. It inspires me to remember hurts and wrongs. It prompts me to observe plights and injustices. It reminds me to empathize and communicate. My muse doesn't flounce around in fairy grab or sport blonde ringlets. It doesn't have rosy lips that whisper in my ear. It screams for my attention and demands to be noticed and catered to. It is a spoiled child that cries to get its way and is seldom pleased.
But, it pushes me to express what I dare not share. It forces me to engage my mind with my unwilling hand. And despite its ferocity and its brattiness, it wants what is best for me and what is right for the world.
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