a muse sing, words

wanted an hour nap before dinner

curled up in a ball and thought about you the entire time

wished we were talking, laughing, declaring impossibilities to one another, sharing inner thoughts

instead of rest i lay in the too cold room with too desperate musings on the state of having a muse once again

on one hand the constant inspiration is exciting, the words that always sing to me having purpose again, not just vague feelings of sadness

on the other hand lying to myself that unrequited dreams are anything but a bullseye upon my already feeble and tenuous grasp on the world is terrifying is unsettling and sublime

the problem is falling in love with a slave to words means there can be no secrets

the ever steady drip of cognitive configurations reveals every secret facet in my hardly hidden heart

i allow the emotional distress to be painted upon my canvas, as abstract and immature the words may be

i don’t know the next line before i see it, so it is as much a shock as a revelation of unredacted release

yet still they will not let me rest until given fragile form and pushed from the mentally unstable place they are nested

to fly or to plummet, most likely the latter as the former seems less than my ability

i feel like a talentless huckster plying my badly worded prose to an unwilling audience of bored prodigies that see through every clumsy verse

i would stop strumming the chords but my fingers move of their own accord, affording me no break from unsubstantial truth

so they fall where they will and lie untouched in the mist of wounded exacerbated filth

how dare i imagine a place better than here when i am not sure i deserve to be there

we reap what we sow and dischord and hollow turns of phrase seed my garden of distractive destructive undigested spoiled fruits of laborious lack of clarity

brittle harvest on salted soil of my own sewn discontent

i don’t deserve a muse if all i can do is disappoint her

cannot hope to compare to her voice of beauty and thrills, humbled as the words that tumbled have no sense of art

would rather hear a muse sing, than be amusing, i seem to banter pain instead of entertain

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