Writing without inspiration
is like singing without a voice.
Before him, there was Writer's Block,
A stone I would chisel away,
never to find escape.
He became my inspiration,
my muse, my angel, my voice.
I labored from dawn until dusk,
composing lyrics about the enigma
whom I had never met.
This song became my passion,
my only pride and joy,
my soul branded upon parchment,
word after word,
no rest until completion.
Evening in the park, it must have been chance
or fate, it would seem,
to have the North Wind steal
my taboo emotion, my heartfelt composition,
and deliver it to the foot of my muse.
He snatched the paper from the ground
and read, azure eyes devoured my manuscript,
tearing my self-confidence to shreds
with four emotionless words,
"You have no talent".
He knew he was my driving force,
and still he ripped out my heart,
letting my emotions pour forth,
raw and unfettered
like blood from a mortal wound.
My muse was a writer himself,
yet how could he be so brutal?
Was it because of my undying love
for this male, the same gender as myself?
Why must I be tormented so?
I saw him then, he comprehended
the anguish bleeding from my eyes.
He came to me then, embracing my face
with cold hands, pulling me closer,
muttering the truth, "Maybe I lied".
Our lips met then, consuming one another.
He tasted of cigarettes and alcohol,
a writer's danse macabre,
one moment of breathless, eclipsing bliss
before being abandoned once again.
My love drives the pen across the page.
Never am I lacking in my inspiration.
He incites me to continue my quest,
to strive for his approval in song...
Song consumed by longing for my muse.
is like singing without a voice.
Before him, there was Writer's Block,
A stone I would chisel away,
never to find escape.
He became my inspiration,
my muse, my angel, my voice.
I labored from dawn until dusk,
composing lyrics about the enigma
whom I had never met.
This song became my passion,
my only pride and joy,
my soul branded upon parchment,
word after word,
no rest until completion.
Evening in the park, it must have been chance
or fate, it would seem,
to have the North Wind steal
my taboo emotion, my heartfelt composition,
and deliver it to the foot of my muse.
He snatched the paper from the ground
and read, azure eyes devoured my manuscript,
tearing my self-confidence to shreds
with four emotionless words,
"You have no talent".
He knew he was my driving force,
and still he ripped out my heart,
letting my emotions pour forth,
raw and unfettered
like blood from a mortal wound.
My muse was a writer himself,
yet how could he be so brutal?
Was it because of my undying love
for this male, the same gender as myself?
Why must I be tormented so?
I saw him then, he comprehended
the anguish bleeding from my eyes.
He came to me then, embracing my face
with cold hands, pulling me closer,
muttering the truth, "Maybe I lied".
Our lips met then, consuming one another.
He tasted of cigarettes and alcohol,
a writer's danse macabre,
one moment of breathless, eclipsing bliss
before being abandoned once again.
My love drives the pen across the page.
Never am I lacking in my inspiration.
He incites me to continue my quest,
to strive for his approval in song...
Song consumed by longing for my muse.