The Muse Protects Me
When I write it goes away.
It subsides by night,
And grows by day.
This fear rattles my insides.
Ever so gently it creeps,
Inside my soul's fright,
Only to rattle still,
This creepy fear.
I'm sitting in an open room,
With nobody in it but me.
This creepy feeling, what a fright,
But not when I write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem