A writer needs his muse.

 

For weeks, I was unstoppable;

the freedom from the young ex

the peace of the wanderer

words, emotions, love pouring from me

the hope that a woman I desired

finally

desired me more and more with each poem, each try

 

I have been reduced to starving again

wandering for the sake of

numbing my emotions because

each time I love,

each muse who invades then retracts

leaves my soul a little more exposed

raw, sensitive, taking with them

a thin layer of my creativity

a singular time in my life so original and pure

making me more scarred, more timid, more in pain

as a result

until it, everything, anything, ceases to hurt anymore

and I am able to write once again

 

I need a new muse…

Ironic,

the necessity of this lonely wanderer

 

 

 

af

 

 

 

 

(written with pen on paper)