where do you turn for inspiration these days?

all my dead muses haunt me and the living ones i’ve drained out.

i can’t remember the last time i picked up the pen. it just doesn’t feel the same.

you say thats a reflection of the person i’ve become, or a direct cause.

& perhaps you’re right.

there’s a slim chance you always were.

perhaps i was never meant to be the writer.

perhaps i was best to stay a muse.

would that cast a better reflection on the person that i am? of the love that i give?

if i keep drawing parallels, will that draw you closer? or push you further away?

where do you turn for inspiration when your muses turn the page. when they’ve all left the room?

it’s just me.

it’s just you.

amongst these words.

forever caught in the in-between.

in another realm i’ll leave you out the story.

in another realm i’ll let you write your truths.

but in this lifetime, i control the narrative, & you’ll never got to tell my truths.

where do i turn for inspiration

when the words hurt more than they heal?

when there’s more lies than truth?

when i’m just a writer and no longer the muse.