A writer’s muse

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.

writers blocked

what brought you back:

was it your need for attention or affection ?

i’m looking for the simple answer.

spare me, i don’t have the attention for the extended version.

your eyes be telling all those things you don’t say out loud.

i know.

i know you too well.

you make it hard to believe:

in you.

in myself.

& if i didn’t believe you then,

i sure as hell don’t believe you now.

i think you’re looking in the wrong places.

looking for me in the wrong space & time.

you never say it to my face.

you can’t look me in the eyes.

i don’t got it.

& perhaps i never did get it.

but i think i get it now.

everything is different, but nothings changed.

i just write at higher stakes.

write your own script.

you learn to accept the things you can’t change.

hopefully sooner, rather than later, you’ll realize the only variable you can control is yourself.

: your reaction, where and with whom you place your energy, the waves you decide to ride, the fires you decide to light.

you evolve. a by-product of your environment. lots of conditioning. maybe some conditions. progress over perfection.

that’s fine.

my soul was never for sale. so i wrote the story my damn self.

i write here.

your rules don’t apply here.

you don’t have editing rights here.

you don’t get to control the narrative.

not around here.

write your own script.

you don’t deserve any credit here.

reawakening

you remind me that versions of myself i had forgotten about a long time ago still exist within me.

& that takes something.

Love is a loosing game

look for me when you look me in the eyes.

am i still me ?

i think i’m loosing myself.

i think i’m loosing myself.

i’m a fragment of the girl i used to be.

that girl you once knew.

i don’t recognize this version of myself.

and i hope you never meet her.

i loose myself between the lines.

i find myself amongst the words.

why do i repeat these cycle?

is this what love does to you ?

or is it merely the illusion of love that does this to us ?

look for me when you look me in the eyes.

bring me back to myself.

i’m loosing myself.

and i’m loosing you too.