Sing, Goddess

Sing, O Goddess, of my petulant wrath. That which I’ve failed to address for so long. Speak and guide my hand to express The words of extremity needed to voice: Passions of violent nature performed. I have such strange verses to bare. My hands are quaking with unrealized strokes Of genius that may yet flow forth from I My tongue is wet with wanton wanting, Breathing, believing in all I deplore. I forefront this painstaking proclamation With pretenses of seduction and sweet Manipulation. I hope you get my meaning. I have strained and sullied my own name To achieve a stage of pure expression. I pray to the goddess of art and music That she may pluck my strings as her Kithara, her disclosure, her discord. Perhaps this line will liberate me. I could stop this senseless seduction Of myself to share my mind in this message Of either vindication or virulent codependency, With either pretense my name is upon The dotted line, cosigning this dissent. It matters not where my influence lay. Who listens, and who may do as I say. My only concern I to briefly appeal To some vague aesthetic ideal that I feel. And I think it may be important. Because I feel it. And it is so alive.