Muse on the run
why have thou forsaken me?
The only God I ever thought could fulfil and denounce all insipidity.
Creativity- my muse. usually, I type -words flow not perfect but in some sense of the verse.
Can’t swallow – I’ve been cursed.
Another person knows the truth – think I want to go back up the birth canal first
overthinking rhyming words – music, hoovers, the energy is far from an ideal haven.
Look above, hear the wings flap – a freak migration of the black wings – inaugurate the raven.
All exercise comes from my smile – I’ve packed on the pounds frowning lines overused, flex around my mouth.
flex around my mouth.
Drop-dead. A blow to the head. I’ve lost it. Muse? ditched me to become a stitched up cowboy down south.
Swallow guilt in packs of threes.
Music to my ears -guilt shake me, blood seeps out -donation date in arrears.
doubtful mind -caution mindfully what you attempt to incite.
Confederate vocabulary union matched up on a strike
No more smiling faces in sight.
Each word resigns – there is nothing left to type.
No tears pouring down his face. There is no moisture to wipe.
Studpity rots the brain
no more stories when a writer runs out of grain.
Shadows – I cower away . Shadows induce carbon monoxide attack
Clampdown on every thought – seize all my gear-leave me with not one solid fact in tack.
the writer who dunnit
Posted on Mar 19, 2017, in EXPERIMENTAL WRITING and tagged Creative works, Emotions, EXPERIMENTAL WRITING, Fears, Mental Wellbeing, Reflection, self expression, Self medication, support. Bookmark the permalink. 17 Comments.