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.
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