Misunderstood Muse

Oh my misunderstood muse - love and life; It's not just a hobby - It's my dream, but demons in my mind run wild at night.... So there won't be any poetry tonight. Nothing to say, to see nor to write... My quill does not care for the combination of April and Spring flowers, nor merrily singing sparrows, building nests, preparing for birth. I've not left the season of bitter death. I refuse to express, as it's a confession, so, I let my garden succumb to deadly suppression. Oh my misunderstood muse, if not here, then where will I find clarity? Telling you my truth was difficult. Each second is a nemesis to my identity, so I'm burning pages of time to ashes. An absence of subtle reflection in words, becomes a substance of proverbial subsistence, as reflections of past poems torment in fluorescent flashes. I'm confused with the existence of timeless distance. Remember when we listened to the stunned stars, as the miserable moon hid behind clouds, resembling the shadows of your manipulative lies. Insistence of your resistance cries, seems like a waste of emotions, in a false dawn of devotions. You used to make me laugh like crazy, as we danced among roses and daisies, but we struggled to create perfect harmonies, ignoring simple sincere symphonies. Oh my misunderstood muse, I've drained all of your ink... Burying you in an unmarked grave. Now your predicament will not breed, nor succeed in its egotistical need.