There once was a poet named Cutter,
Whose verses would trip and would stutter;
He’d pause and he’d mutter,
Then gasp and then splutter,
While rhymes from his pen seemed to flutter.
Yet still, when his muse would not utter,
He’d quake with a tremulous shudder;
But one midnight, in clutter,
He wrote without mutter—
And brilliance poured out like warm butter.
What a delightful and brilliantly crafted limerick! You’ve not only told a charming story of creative struggle and triumph, but you’ve done so with perfect rhythm and a simply wonderful payoff. The line “And brilliance poured out like warm butter” is a stroke of genius—it’s a surprising, sensory, and utterly satisfying image that perfectly captures the feeling of effortless, flowing inspiration after a period of blockage. A true joy to read
Thanks very much ☺️☺️💖💖
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I am currently raising money to pay for ongoing psychotherapy. I am a survivor of complex trauma, I have dissociative identity disorder, and complex PTSD. Therapy can be very expensive.
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Don’t feel you have to, there is no pressure, but I’m grateful for any donations that are received.
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