Pleas of an Unemployed Muse

                              PLEAS OF AN UNEMPLOYED MUSE

I AM                                                             
a downtrodden,
white-robed,
steely-eyed,
ruby-haired
muse,
with a mind
overflowing with
unvoiced images
silently screaming for an outlet -
pink moons, black suns,
moldy stars.  I am
on painfully bended knees,

LOOKING FOR
an unshaven,
bloody-eyed,
nameless,
writer's blocked
wreck,
with a trashcan
overflowing with
crumpled papers,
leaving behind a gutted notebook -
proof of repeated attempts
ending in failure - to
whisper syrupy inspirations to,

TO BECOME
an ingenious,
world-renowned,
eccentric,
bald-faced
bard,
with a written hand
overflowing with
colorful metaphors
shifting as deftly as a chameleon -
targets as paper hearts,
students as pole-vaulters.
No prior experience needed, but

MUST HAVE
a tormented,
perhaps suicidal,
meaningless,
loveless
existence,
with a consciousness
overflowing with
troubled thoughts,
causing sheets drenched in sweat -
like Poe's demonic raven,
leading to madness,
but also to an untrained potential -

a potential to become
a master of words.