Song For A Muse
I wipe the page clean
Or fill it up with absurdities
I sit with pen to paper
Or wear the carpet thin with pacing
And the muse, she does not come.
I could see new people places faces
I could drink my weight in gin
Inject liquid creativity into my vein
Cut myself just to see me bleed
And still, she would not come
If I broke and saddled the beast within
If I scissored open the silver lining
Fucked over all my inhibitions
Unshackled the savage inside my head
Even then she would not come.
Be a dirty girl or straight and chaste
Travel the world or live in solitude
Starve myself or stuff my face
Vulnerable or showing only strength
She doesn't care; she will not come.
I may seduce the ink
I may open my mind
Find the sweet spot
Chase the elusive thought
It makes no difference to the muse.
Engaged or disengaged
Celebrating or lost in grief
Capable or emptied out
Alone or with my shadow
The muse, she does not come.