Lost Muse

The lack of serotonin in my brain, leaving my eyes vacant and my legs restless, missing the waves at my feet.
Craving the feeling of my pen gliding on paper, but I have no muse and I'm full of feelings I ignore that I can't put on paper.

I guess that’s what poetry is for.

Mere lines on paper, containing cryptic stories, releasing dopamine with each word I read.

Perhaps I can be my own muse for a change, writing about the sun in my eyes, stories of romance, and fine wine on summer nights.
Living an arbitrary life, dreaming of the beach, a state of tranquility so foreign to me.

This is what poetry has done for me.
I use to hate the beach, but now I'm engulfed in the sand with the ocean grazing my feet.

But instead of the sun in my eyes, the January cold is freezing me to the bone.
There's frostbites on my toes, but not from the winter cold.

Looking out into the horizon, searching for a muse, so far in to the distance,

I no longer see you.

Once again, I'm remembering that you're no longer my muse, but my pen is still moving, writing about you.
The difference now is that I have sand between my toes and flowers in my hair, replacing the thought of your lips grazing my shoulders and your shaky hands pulling at my hair.
Im lovelier than ever.
I'm swimming in a sea of warmth, but I'm left alone with my pen and my paper, stranded at the beach, in my threadbare jeans, the skin hiding behind the rips, covered with goosebumps and sand from the breeze.

The flowers falling from my hair and the ocean drifting from my feet, I’m no longer just reading poetry, instead I’m writing about the beach and only good memories.
My eyes still vacant, going through the motions.

This is what poetry has done to me.

Poetry saved me.