The blankets, slept in. The air thick with smoke from the magical stuff that turns your mind inward, too inward if you let it. I wouldn’t know, I’m more of a bore. The stale sweat rubs me in every wrong way while I tell myself I’m there for some divine reason. A few drops of blood drip from the crown of his head. Flashes of sex. Flashes of nude bones and rolling hills course through me like biblical visions from above. I don’t dare ask. And here he comes with all the magic and an entire universe behind his eyes that a few of us are lucky enough to see. I respect you, is what I wish to say. I like you- like you, is what I wish to say, but instead I talk about Chipotle. I want him and he wants me but I want more. The stink of stale sex and that feeling of whether he’ll be there tomorrow plagues me enough without it. “Not tonight, okay?” And that was ok. And it was ok. Like it should be. But it’s not the sex that connect us. The sadness that sits inside him reaches the depths of hell and the arms he wraps me in feel like the sun and the moon. He is an entire universe I’ll only ever leave in body because my mind wanders towards him in the most sacred ways. So sacred, it doesn’t feel right.
I wanted to share a poem of mine that was published on Genius in a Bottle a publication on Medium that I really admire.
I’ve been going through a literary theory course through open courseware. (You can find it here) And I’ve learned so much and in such an in depth way. The last few articles I’ve read that were required for the lectures gave me some clarity on how I can incorporate the strong arms in my life and use them to propel my art rather than allow it to stifle me in any way. Please click the link the link to enjoy the full poem and to support our art.
Am I but once Am I left for dead strapped head to a bed chasing after the wind’s howls? strapped to a life unplanned but a life always wanted it’s a yellow wood-left goes right right goes left As above so below so they say I zippered, then tore, now I’m here
“Inspiration is the windfall from hard work and focus. Muses are too unreliable to keep on the payroll.” ― Helen Hanson
Ideas are such an interesting thing. They can hit us like a load of bricks. They can grow on us. They can evolve into something completely different. Where do they come from? How do we lose them so easily. How do some stick around more than others?
These are all interesting questions. Over time we’ve attributed our gift of ideas to the muse, but I don’t think that’s right. I think we use our own minds from our own experiences to inspire ourselves. A muse which could be anything, a gust of wind, a spark, a man with few words, is the result of being conscious. So when we give the muse all the credit, it takes away from our own ability to be aware.
Ideas come from within ourselves. We think, and turnover, and observe minute details within our daily lives. We question our characters and when we can’t find the answer we make it up. We recall places and fill in the blanks with our own creativity, intentional or not. As humans….
What is it that I do not say
Mouth slammed shut like my tongue is a trapped mouse
the most important thoughts lead to the ocean
Here’s my hand please see inside me
Help me filter through the bullshit
So I can finally say what I want to say