Almost a sonnet

A poem a day keeps the demon at bay:
The fickle, stubborn thing
Stymies my work until I play–
Impairs until I sing.
The fickle bird scorns every word;
Its hollow breast gives sigh.
I grimace that it has the nerve
To twitter while I try.
Worse than this, I must persist
To wrestle 'neath its feet.
This tyrant smaller than my fist
Provokes my heart to beat.
Soon assuaged, it flies away,
Plotting its return.
And I engaged, trapped on a page,
Would like to see it burn...