my muse

I am but a ghostwriter

A conduit for one

I know not how he does it

I only know he’s won

I write for you and me

He makes me write for him

By no means am I an artist

Only a slave to his every whim

The words flow like a waterfall

They come from deep within

My muse is like a fluent spring

That dwells beneath my skin

When it lies dormant

I can pen no words

And only he who lets me write

Knows when I should be heard