An unhurried talk to my muse about poetry

The night showed black beyond the window, sleepless, odious, despairing.
I didn't notice when and how she appeared.
Silent and pensive, she was watching through the window, seemingly paying no attention to me. Her pale face, semitransparent clothes, delicate hands in the deadly-bluish gleam of the street lamp...
a ghost... a vision...
I was not quite sure if it was a strange dream or a distorted reality of my withered tired mind.

Five minutes passed or maybe a quarter.
I dared to break the silence. "Hello!" - I whispered as low as possible.
She kept looking through the window, smoking a cigarette, while slow rings of smoke was traveling through the ventilation pane towards nowhere.

Ten minutes more passed, or maybe an hour.
"Hey, miss, hello!" - I whispered again as if I was afraid to frighten away or destroy the fragile image.
She turned her head to me slowly, grudgingly and so graciously.
"Please, what's your name, miss?" - I asked.
She made a deep puff and put the cig out.
"I am Muse. Your muse" - she said evenly and unwillingly, or it just seemed to me as I didn't notice she opened her mouth.

"Fine!" - I felt much easier after such a long silence and uncertainty.
"My muse. It's really fine"
A thought slipped by: "Sure it's a dream but it's ok. At least now I can type what she tells. If she really is my muse - and who else can she be? - she may dictate me something really good!". And I turned to my computer.
She frowned, but I went on. I started the Notepad and looked at her.

"What?" - she asked unfriendly with her mouth closed again.
"Would you help me, please?" - I begged hesitatingly.
"Help?"
"Yes, help."
"Why should I?" - she answered coldly.
"But you said you were my muse, didn't you?"
"So what?"
"But... but... you are my muse! You should help me!" - I couldn't find a better argument.

She lapsed into silence for a minute or so.
"Are you still sure?" - her voice sounded much warmer now.
"Yes, I am!" - I rejoiced.
"Well... are you ready?"
"Yes, I am" - I nodded.
"Ok. Then start typing" - she said and continued slowly and distinctively:

"When you have nothing to say - never write a word. Full stop.
When you have something to say then avoid writing either. Full stop.
Silence is your best work. Full stop."
"???" - I stared at her stupidly.
"That's all" - she finished dictating.
I felt completely embarrassed.
Then she added: "Ah, yeah... there is one more thing. Please, never, ne-ver write the so-called poetry"
"What? But..." - astonished, I turned to see her... but the room was empty...
and only a transparent circle of smoke was smoothly drifting under the swinging ceiling.

"But... but I need to express my emotions! I must share my feelings... my fears, my hatred... my love, my pain, all my fucking life!" - I screamed.
A tender voice responded quietly from afar:
"It's ok, my friend. But usually this is called - defecation."

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Pavel Nichkov

A critique / feedback is welcome

Russian version: http://www.stihi.ru/2011/03/18/7987