One must strike while the muse is sitting on their shoulder.

For if one waits for more, that time shall never come.

The muse dislikes to be ignored.

And the muse with block your mind.

The brick wall that you break through.

A barrier most fowl to have.

For the fickle soul of the artist.

Who relies on the muse's guide.

Can only create what the muse chooses.

This choice out of your control.

The unstable mind is left to stew.

Your muse likes the night.

The moon is their blanket, white light sucking the soul of artist they guide.

But to live they must always guide those they drain.

They dislike the sun, the burning light making them hiss.

You struggle by day, you are happy by night.

The blood you consume remains as your ink.

Blood of the coloured beings around you.

You stare at the ink vial in your hand.

The hunger consumes you.

'Art, make art.' The muse whispers.

You comply, the snake who watches you on the page.

The scales writhe on the page.

Ink drops off your brush, the muse smiles.

'Yes.' They say. 'Trap him in the page.'

The silent screams fill your head.

The screams make you cold.

The screams make you a statue, the screams?

You know those screams.

The screams are familiar, the screams that echo.

'Goodbye little muse.'

You don't move.

Your red blood is now in someone's vial.

And the cycle continues.