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.

These fears.

This rage.

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.

Sincerley ,

the writer who dunnit

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