The occasional disappointment I experience with one of my sources of inspiration. |
Muse On A Tightrope You inspire me, little muse. With a girlish voice that delivers a woman’s words, you make me want to try. I hear you, little muse. The sharpness in the push of your pencil on my skin, opens me wide, and the blood in the script sprays my face with a sticky heat that I don’t understand. I envy you, little muse. You, with all the simple, yet beautiful logic that we seek to possess, seem ungrateful of the power that your words inherit. You dismiss that which makes you worthy of sing-song praises and breathy, green sighs. You wave your hand, to make it all disappear, but you do it slowly. There is hesitation in the gesture, an unwillingness to commit to your own renunciation. A part of you accepts your divinity, but you teeter on the thread that holds it together, finding comfort in proclaiming your own unsteadiness. No one will expect you to make it to the other side, if you make it clear that you will fall. No pretty, ruffled parasol will ever hold you up. No, you say, it’s better to cower in the corner, than try to walk the line. In that corner, the bloodletting will be the art of your own design. Your timidity embarrasses me, little muse. |