The Ineluctable Impetus

A poem about the call to write

At first she didn't know why her green tendrils grew, devouring
All the pretty little sentences and words of phrase-full scouring.

Yet anon the purpose was made clear;
There was none!
All her flailing...
Left a trailing muck of insincere devotion to prevailing.
She'd never dared to really try.
Or maybe worse;
She did.

...And what to show?
How low; the sorry sludge she'd spill when in a daring mood.
How sordid; dank yet blithe, the scraps of nonsense she'd exude.

Yet here she lives; this loving scum,
Succumbing to the dreaming.
And when she slimes her proudest muck,
You'll find her conscious...
Gleaming.