Slaving Away (Poetry)

I sit here all day writing —
like I’m writing for my life
as I mumble through rough pages
almost talking to myself

Knowing few will pause to listen
though the lines stretch black as pain
but tomorrow I’ll pick up a pen
and write all day again

In the company of authors —
some are living — most are dead
I sense I’m picking up on
conversations in my head

As the symptom of some illness
the mere thought might seem insane
while I’m loathe to take the credit
I’ll accept I’m part to blame

For blank paper craves a poem
like a flower needs the light
words swim around my quiet room
and keep me up at night

I even dream of writing —
Avon’s bard is on the phone
he’s dictating a sad sonnet
and he won’t leave me alone

While I’m taking care with every word
I’m playing it by ear
but I cannot prove the origin
of what is scribbled here

So if anyone should wonder
or detect some famous voice
I’ve a multitude of masters
and a slave has little choice