Muse
Feelings of inadequacy leave
my stomach slushing in all
directions, tidal waves crashing
into one another making me
sway upon the rusting rickety
vessel that is my body.
She’s pretty, a silken black beauty,
personality soaring to unrealistic
heights, brushing cheeks with cosmos
Winds….She’s everywhere, it seems,
eyes puncturing ten dimensionally over
wire rimmed glasses that my perfect
vision will never let me have.
Damn her and her cliché persona,
Seeming as original as the lines she
scratches in the dead of night, stained by
tears she wont let anyone see.
She’s Intentionally dulling my intelligence
to a single nebulous brain wave responding
“Yes” and “I agree”….sometimes even
drooling as she gesticulates her insights
on Italian ballets and booze. More than
potential she’s living the dream, stolen
Right out of my sleeping head so when
around her, I’m walking, functioning
with fog in my brain. See she’s care free and she
cares about me but the way a jeweler
looks at his creation, a production
conceived by sweet and splintered hands.
I am but the precious stones dangling round
her creamy neck, front and center for
all the things she has I need,
but only getting barely granted glances.
Can I steel the cross that mocks her-
maybe if I pray to the saints she holds
so dear my luck will change, the God I
never knew will make my pen soak
black rivers of ink, flooding my
page with pains I never felt, to true
for her to ignore….I could pray….
Press, squeezing my lids shut and
pretend to feel something until I do.
She is simply all the glances I wish
I had the scars I wish I bled- and
The needles that should have been
Stretching holes in my body.
I stupidly would exchange
Perfectly placid memories for those
Where you screamed, I in joy
You in inspiring, stitch-worthy shrills.
Not jealousy because she is me,
plagiarized notions I have yet to write-
ideas to lazy to cite she did it unknowing.
Unwittingly leaving without permission
And now Twenty years under cold ground
and I cant help but hate her.
my stomach slushing in all
directions, tidal waves crashing
into one another making me
sway upon the rusting rickety
vessel that is my body.
She’s pretty, a silken black beauty,
personality soaring to unrealistic
heights, brushing cheeks with cosmos
Winds….She’s everywhere, it seems,
eyes puncturing ten dimensionally over
wire rimmed glasses that my perfect
vision will never let me have.
Damn her and her cliché persona,
Seeming as original as the lines she
scratches in the dead of night, stained by
tears she wont let anyone see.
She’s Intentionally dulling my intelligence
to a single nebulous brain wave responding
“Yes” and “I agree”….sometimes even
drooling as she gesticulates her insights
on Italian ballets and booze. More than
potential she’s living the dream, stolen
Right out of my sleeping head so when
around her, I’m walking, functioning
with fog in my brain. See she’s care free and she
cares about me but the way a jeweler
looks at his creation, a production
conceived by sweet and splintered hands.
I am but the precious stones dangling round
her creamy neck, front and center for
all the things she has I need,
but only getting barely granted glances.
Can I steel the cross that mocks her-
maybe if I pray to the saints she holds
so dear my luck will change, the God I
never knew will make my pen soak
black rivers of ink, flooding my
page with pains I never felt, to true
for her to ignore….I could pray….
Press, squeezing my lids shut and
pretend to feel something until I do.
She is simply all the glances I wish
I had the scars I wish I bled- and
The needles that should have been
Stretching holes in my body.
I stupidly would exchange
Perfectly placid memories for those
Where you screamed, I in joy
You in inspiring, stitch-worthy shrills.
Not jealousy because she is me,
plagiarized notions I have yet to write-
ideas to lazy to cite she did it unknowing.
Unwittingly leaving without permission
And now Twenty years under cold ground
and I cant help but hate her.