A writer and her muse, the on going love affair…
I hate the way you keep me up at night
And the way you leave me stranded without foresight.
I hate the way you take control on the page.
I hate it when you sabotage my language.
I hate your manic drive, even your whimsy
And the way you drag me along.
I hate you so much it makes me pray to unknown Gods.
It even makes me write parodies.
I hate it…
I hate the way your fervor pushes me to hone.
I hate it when you’re gone.
I hate it when your magic makes me soar, like I can do no wrong;
Even worse, is when you make me feel I belong.
I hate it when you go silent
And the fact that you expect me to carry on,
But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you;
Not that I should if I would;
Not that I don’t even when I do;
Not that I want to, even if I could.
Maybe you don’t have a muse, but if you did, would you give him/her a name? My muse’s name is Tobias. Of course, he’s lanky grey-eyed, and often traveling, leaving me to my inner sanctum writing parodies. Sad.
Where is your muse today?