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 verse.
Can’t swallow – I’ve been cursed.
Another person knows the truth – think I want to go back up the birth canal first
over thinking 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
Clamp down on every thought – seize all my gear-leave me with not one solid fact in tack.
the writer who dunnit