Let it be the death of me,
Let it sweep me off my feet to my watery grave.

May it be the reason I rip my hair from my head.

Let it plague my mind.
Watch it control my limbs as it grips the pen,

Smother the tip in my blood,
yes, watch me bleed.

Do you see it crawling up my skin,
the only reason I begin and end.
It's everything,
my entire life form.

Yes, let it waste no time,
these story's will be told in a nick of time.

Let it be known it is mine.
Precious thing don't you ever leave,
we are just beginning.

This poem is about loving writing and asking for help from your muse. So don't take it literally.
I was trying to also pinpoint the frustration you get sometimes from being a writer.