Half Fish (Poetry)

My days cast adrift as a poet
seem bordering on the perverse -
disconnected from land,
words bubble unplanned
and simply refuse to disperse.

The Muse is a siren, I know it -
she stuffs my head full of her song,
insisting I write
far into the night -
I resent being chivvied along.

It's her voice, never mine, that I hear
wheedling, musically low -
like the drag of a sea
that is near-drowning me,
overwhelmed by its sly undertow.

I'm so far from the shore that I fear
I'm already half fish, doomed to swim
round in circles and nurse
each improbable verse
'til her bucket's full up to the brim.

I seem cursed when I ought to feel blessed -
how I wish she would give it a rest,
let me do what I like -
bugger off - take a hike -
Inspiration can be such a pest!