Frenemy

There’s something gnawing on my brain,

That turns it black with blues,

Until I must write down the pain:

The poets call it Muse.

There’s something slipping down my spine

Like a soft-feathered quill,

Until I am both sick and fine:

I think they call it Thrill.

There’s something burning in my chest

Like a Hell-kindled coal

Until I must narrate this stress:

The wise men call it Soul.

There’s something inside me, and it

Pangs luscious agony,

Until it makes me a poet:

I call it Frenemy.