There are powerful men, who are capable of powerful things

They can be corrupted, liberated, forged, or born…

Liberated, corrupted, forged, or born…

Born, corrupted, forged, or liberated…

It doesn’t make any sense,

Screw this

 

Once upon a time, there was a queen,

She was sought after by many,

Some for her hand,

Others for her head…

Her heart and her life…

This story has been done to death

 

Where did you go? I miss you…

 

We used to run through meadows,

That were full of daisies and lilies

Bees would whizz past our faces

We’d fall into a pile of flowers

Our chest heaving and hurting

From the fits of laughter

 

We’d run into battle

The city crumbling around us

The ground would shake with every roar

The mighty dragon breathing fire over us

Our swords were drawn

Ready to fight

 

When was the first time we met? You just appeared…

 

I would tell my mother stories,

Creatures in the woods,

Who would dance, and sing, and climb trees,

They were all imaginary, but they helped to create you

And you were real…

Are real

 

I can never touch you,

But I feel you in every word, and line

I feel you in every thought I have.

Then I lost you,

Emptiness is where you should be

It hurts not having you here

 

Where did you go? It used to be easy and simple…

 

I’d always been proud to call you mine

We could breathe life into every line

Our adventures were grand

The life we shared was revolutionary and,

Yet as old as time itself

I never thought I could lose you

 

It was easy for us to create life

We’d see a building, and think how to conquer it

How to scale and swing from it

We’d see a blade of grass

All of the shades of green as it danced with the wind

We’d look into the universe, and try to reach for every possibility and break every boundary

 

We were unstoppable, we couldn’t be contained! Then I failed you…

 

C

In big red pen

On an English paper

That was practically failing

Other people got A

I have to find out what happened (There must be a mistake)

 

“You have great potential, but your style needs work,”

I don’t need to hear about my potential

I need answ-

“you muse is…childish.

You voice needs work”

Tell me how to make it better, tell me what to do

 

“Practice. Turn in your revisions.” The air got sucked from my lungs, I couldn’t breathe

 

Childish.

Needs work.

You are perfect

You could be heard in every line

You could make any graphs and tables fun

Needs work.

 

I don’t have the right to your beauty or magnificence

I am a shell who has no right to contain the universe

I quiet the voice

I take out the us, we, and me

I got an A

“This is what they look at in college,”

 

“Professional.”

 

I felt like I took a lightning bolt to the chest

And was left with a giant, gapping hole where my heart should be

The world got darker

Less fun

I kept getting an A on my papers

“This is what they look for on the test.”

 

Most of the class similar scores

Two or three

Professional

The teacher saw this for a way for improvement

She spent the last weeks of school telling us how we failed

Over and over and over

 

“I made a graph to compare your scores to the rest of the country.”

 

I never wanted to write again

I was ready to the dark set in

Never hear another dragon

Never scale another building

I forced my self to take literature

To read other authors, learn their style, to rebuild my own

 

Start a new.

Professional.

Needs Work.

I liked the course

Earned college credit for it

But my body still ached

 

But I had created something new. A muse that was never seen before.

 

Except, it has been seen.

Everywhere

I lacked creativity for the first time in my life

My head was whirling through the void

Nothing to see and nothing to explain

No adventures, professional

 

I hated myself

I got rid of the most unique parts of us

I abandoned you somewhere deep in the woods

I tried to recreate you

Improve upon you

You can never be replaced

 

My Muse cannot be reused or recycled

It is beyond compare

My muse allows for adventures to unfold from a simple sway in the leaves

My must appears in every word uttered, every though conceived

I left my muse

I want it back

 

I didn’t leave it of my own volition

I was ripped from my hands, by individuals who wanted my muse to fit into a box

Become professional

My muse grows and expands like the plains of eternity

It is holy and cherished

It is witty and Devine

 

It is all I have inside my head that I can claim as mine

My muse is past present and future

If you don’t like it

Go fuck yourself!

I will fight for my muse till my last breath

And if you think its excessive,

 

Then find your own muse, and find that you fiercely defend it.

 

My muse was lost for months, years

I feared I’d never find it again

But I needed it like air

I need the freedom and escape

Its not to say I can't learn

But to say my muse is wrong just because it doesn’t fit,

 

Is kind of missing the whole point.