Sometimes I muse
To myself
What it would be like
To write like an author
Like a best-seller
Like a Doyle or a Dostoevsky.
Some nights, I sit up late
And wait for my muse to sing
To give me a sweet taste of her lips
And let me pour my mind
Onto the blank screen before me.
Some nights I despair
And return to old habits
Of distasteful description
And sub-par performance.
And every time it leaves
Nothing more than a bitter taste
For the fact that I only amount
To the number of words in a box.
There is a book
That cries for a voice
And cries for an author
That can paint a picture of its face
And the emotion that it can speak
In volumes deeper than human hearts could imagine.
And every time
I fall short
So short of this goal
And my muse laughs
Like grinding steel
And I curl up alone
Wishing what is in my head
Would be what is before your eyes.
If you could see the color of desperate men
And taste the dreams of mad children
Then you would know
What I feel for my muse.
There is a book in my body
Clawing its way to the surface
And every day retreating from
A sliver of light
As doors of steel bar its way to freedom.
A thousand portals have been tried
And a thousand have been locked.
A book rests inside me
A form of unearthly beauty
That desires nothing more than to be allowed to live
And I am not the man to give it life.
Yet it persists.
Grand ideas
On a scale greater than starscapes
Pound at iron-bound doors
And wail for the muse on the other side
To let just one wisp through.
But she smiles sadly
And blows cynical kisses
And leaves the book and ideas in darkness
To brood with me
Where no light shines
And the muse will never venture.
So scared of us is she
That if she were to ever keep a door unlocked
That we would become
Too great to contain.
So here I lie
A book inside me
My instrument beside me
With the muse to give voice
To my book
Just beyond the door before me.
And I am without the skill
To paint my masterpiece
On the screen before you
Without her voice
To sing inspiration for me.
There is always hope
In the thought
That Doyle and Dostoevsky
Were just as frustrated with Zeus's daughters
That they spurned these greats
As mine has spurned me.
And so, to crack my muse across the face
with the hand of a thousand darkened hopes
Ringed with the light of one that remains
I will continue to muse
And hope there will be born
Something great
From my

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