I believe that we all house our personal Muse somewhere deep within us.
In our souls, in our hearts or in the marrow of our bones----it matters not.
That divine ethereal spark streaks out of somewhere---nowhere, round the corner or a distant nebula--- and says "Damn! This is vital, elemental, true!"
And those who by predilection or happenstance refuse to be embarrassed by the flush of beauty and "rightness" sometimes speak it or scribble it down to prove to themselves that, for a moment, they were a witness to divinity. If they share the experience with others, we dub them "poets" and judge them to be "sensitive" souls somehow apart from those whose muse lies buried and silent.
The best poems are stained with the blood of a poet who dared to seek out and confront their Muse rather than relate occasional fleeting glimpses of the thing.
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