The Muse by Whispers
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Putting my simple pen..
To this simple paper,
I begin to finalize -
My thoughts, and words,
With a black ink.
Tainting their purity.
Within a pitiless dark.
I write exactly what it is -
What I feel, yes,
I write on the parchment.
Yet I continue -
Oh, yes I surely do -
To internalize..
Only the important things.
The ones I'm afraid to let them see.
I take my brush,
Of simple horse hair,
To this mediocre canvas.
Painting a picture,
Or so it would seem,
With only my own likeness.
Yet my salty ocean falls,
Falling from these hazel ducts,
To distort the image I have drawn.
I let the paint tell -
This tragic story for all.
Beckoning for but a soul to see.
But, it always seems..
So damned pointless.
To try and show a soul these things.
Why can't I make them see what I see?
My dreams, these tragic little things,
Are becoming little tales of mystery.
Forgotten until expressed -
Without the necessary ease -
For other people to know.
Know what I've had to tread.
Letting their stories -
The ones that tell the tales.
Of my own soul, as well?
Of what can be -
Considered, perhaps,
My own lonely world?
Life becomes dull, so slowly -
But not within my imagination,
Which is spewing the creativity -
Steadily from my bones.
A rainbow of these hidden seas,
Laid to waste just before only me.
Colors leap and dance -
Fluidly from the pages,
Yet I can not bring myself home.
To see the pain that only I, alone,
Am capable of expressing.
What could one possibly find?
Myself, alone..? Is that my bane?
If so, I do not approve of the pain.
I am unable to condone them.
To show what is buried within their lines.
The hidden words I'm almost screaming.
The stories that become me..
Even they are bent on the page.
Tearing away attentiveness -
From all who wish to view -
As if I have missed the hidden truth.
There still seems to me,
To be something amiss!
I beg to have it be shown!
But, alas, there is not.
No, there is no longer room.
No longer the means to this end.
Just as in those stories -
The ones which I once bred.
I am lingering here with dread.
Telling of the days,
With this ink or brush,
That were once my own youth.
Can I move my tongue to speak?
To show but a glimpse to you?
I'm finding my story, surely,
Which is missing a piece.
The vital missing link..
As if I'm without it..
Without the perfect muse.
Continually, these pages -
They are left eternally unfinished.
Telling the tales -
Tales oh so unrequited.
One should never be -
Be so full of shock.
It is always like I,
But a simple maiden,
A life without the spite..
Is something I have forgot.
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Plagiarism is a crime.
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