Writer's Cramp

Too many ideas flit in my head:
a sexy murderer in a gown wine-red,
a crazy professor who can freeze time,
an expat who absolutely hates wine.
Everyone mounted on a different frame,
as my muse slowly gives them a name,
jumping from one to another,
adding to each a dash of color.

She mutters, "A few more shades of grey in hero!
But why does that character still looks like zero?
Oh! There's another perfect character in my head
which I am sure should first get ahead."

As the days come and go,
more characters are added in that row,
while the older ones wait patiently,
losing themselves to nothingness silently .

What do you call it,
this habit of not to commit?
An abundance of imagination,
or a source of frustration?
I just call my muse a silly tramp,
and her affliction a writer's cramp.



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