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my muse and I – riding on the coattails of infinity ..
Being in love with you The poem discovers it’s own words The art creates new colours The music plays itself The dream comes a reality Every time I look at you
I keep my poems Close to my heart You told me that I could share them With the world if I really wanted to.
She is a song, On an out-of-tune piano, And though I know, That she is worng, All she needs, Is a bit of tuning, And a bit of refining, And then she can sound, Exactly how,
Why is it that the best muses are love and pain? Because they are strong. Why do people feel them so easily?
If I were an artist and you were my muse I'd paint you a thousand times so I could hear your voice for a million years I'd paint you with gold like the stars in the sky
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,
No one told me that I would suffer for the muse. I wake up; I think of her. I write; I think of her. I eat, drink, sleep; I think of her. She never thinks of me.
I’ve traced the veins up your arms The angles of your jaw The slope of your cheekbones The basin of your forehead The curves of your sides The length of your limbs Over and over Again and again
Dawn has never been my muse Though my spring to her may disagree A slumber sweet and succulent Brings unwanted tendencies To wake I must for day has come A friend or foe she be
Your face in between these thunderous thighs Guiding me on an ascent to cloud nine on the way to meet the most high In between these sheets is where our love lies.
I am nothing but a poet , a musea creator of spoken art manipulator of words ; so when I speak them your heart moves with sway
There are places that can never be trasversed There are ideas that can never be spoken There are emotions that can never be expressed directly. But every moment is a passing,
I need a muse The ringmaster of imagination Trailing art behind its wedding dress as applause waits at the altar Who not only glows beneath moonlit skies and thundering nights
she is composed of many piecesshe has been angel's wings, and the figure of a goddess, and words written to long lost loversshe has been a cry for help, a dying breath, a symphonyshe has been so many different things that she can no longer tell wh
Have some respect.It isn't her fault.You expected too much.Experienced much too little. Like a felineComing and goingShe toys with you You allow it...You masochist.
I would take with me, only the thing that sets me free, If you became tansparent when the sound filled your ears, you would understand what I mean when I say that's all I want to hear.
You say you love music I see your eyes light up The way you bounce to the beat And your smile God how you smile But what you don't know Is that I love music too
I lost another poemthis morningin the early airbetween my home and my carI failed to net itput it in my poem jarit flew awaywill it be aroundsomewhereover therewhen I get back?
O Muse, take pity one me! For I cannot retell half as well as thee! Daedalus, Daedalus, creator of many the glorious thing, Daedalus, Daedalus, the one who gave Man wing, In Crete, that wretched place,
My heart raced My stomach churned My body ached And an overflow of hapiness devoured me.
You stay up late with your coffee filled veins,As I scribble down your name.And baby, I dream with my eyes open,I can't ever be the same.
I am toxic. Everything I touch I kill, and not in a poetic murder
I hold my tongue because it’s proper, And back out because I’ll lose. I’m frightened at the idea, That the world will hate my views.
I feel like I can't runaway anymore. I've been running too long. Searching high, hiding low...
She believes in self expression, Righteous Writing, Speaking out. She knows that your transgression Awaits in hiding In the words behind your mouth She understands that it has meaning.
Whether it's soft or LOUD
I have a thought on my mind and a hunger in my core, I need to fill up my heart before it’s over. I need to see the pressure rise just as I escape demise--
Everyone has a different form of expression everyone is their own piece of art. walking, living, breathing art But what perplexes me so is that they never get to see themselves through someone else's eyes.
And what exactly do I do? I’ve played the game to it's extent And know the plays to their purest form, But now I am left defenseless, Or offense-less in this case. There is no deception,
"I like big books and I cannot lie".. And poems that especially rhyme My escape as a child and in time, An escape from the "Me" I spent years trying to find. Holding on to the words of the pages
Lets write poetryAllow my words to penetrate your linesSoftly whisper the scratches of pen on paperuntil I have fully covered you in inkAllow me to be your guide
An artists muse painted red.
He was like a gypsy. He was a listless soul, constantly searching for something.
This is a forum of confessions, my first impression leave lasting impressions, my expressions aren’t always impressive, so my expressions are in question but for the record my expression comes in different forms in the feeling I hoard
I am the poet,You are my muse.You don’t yet know it,But I have a fuse. Everything that you say,Everything that you do,Affects me in some way,But which way? I’ve no clue.
There's just somethin Bout the beat of a drum, An acoustic guitar, The way a man strums That touches my heart And moves my feet, Always making me Feel the beat The cowboy boots
Have you ever just looked out and saw everything you couldn't formulate an explanation to captured through the simple essence of nature For instance take this cruise,
Moments of clarity; You offer me. Enlighten my mind, Through my darkness. Thoughts and words; Connections I fail to grasp; You ease me. Never fail to offer a release From the demons
My Dear, You say you can't write. When you speak - your voice - Your words, erratic - halting Shine of Emily Dickinson, Unexpected - but lovely all the same.
We each have a well inside of us, filled with exhilaration and craze. It is our driving force. It is the host of every moral and desire we once entertained. It is the common truth that connects us all,
Tell me, Muse, of the boy with the red backpack Walking with a swagger in the diversity-filled Queens. Tell me how the bus would take him through the noise To his serene, tree-lined block just off Hillside Avenue,
You, mother, are the object of my appreciation. You have brought me into this strange world, Leaving me to explore with bright eyes and no sense of direction The fresh air being inhaled into my tiny lungs for the first time
Oh dear Muse, I don’t know your name, I can’t see your face, But your silent words, inspire me to chase my dreams. Because of your weightless pull, I will take another step. Because of your gentle hand, I will never stray.
The brush of life paints a beautiful peice of work depending on how the artist reacts to the changes of the canvis.Using paints better known as emotions the stroke of hands that have seen both death and life within the same year glide with grace.
You seduced me. Drew me in played me for the fool and I bit took the bait tried to dart away only driving the hook in deeper
Freedom: The power or right to act, think or speak as one wants without hindrance or restraint. Ask me am I free. It’s what our people fought so hard to be. Raped by the master so now our children are born into slavery.
When the world surrounds you to bind your evolution Break free Break free from the people who mock your ambitions and belittle your dreams Don’t let them tell you that your not meant to be brilliant
To be someone's inspiration, desire and success. To be their muse, have a connection and inner bliss. A sentimental passion, I want that.
A person worth a thousand words A soul so clean and pure A smile pulls one forever towards His laughter the best cure