R Scales--
I want to be your muse
Your inspiration
I want to stir your thoughts
Your imagination

I want to consume your mind
I want you to figure me out
I want to help you to write
And get your feelings out

I want to get you hot
I want to make you sad
I want to make you happy
I want to make you mad

I want to make you wonder
I want you to day dream about me
I want to change your life
I want to set you free

I want to be your muse
I want to help you to release
I want to help you create
I want to see your masterpiece

A Shuli--
Oh What an inspiration.
Be my muse and replace my tribulation,
Find me a new hight
And I’ll fly you free like a soaring kite.
Long-winged and split-tailed my,
Oh my muse fly on the breth of my words

have it all without a doubt
never again to pout
be my muse;
but I want you to do, to take me too, for together we’ll never lose.

R Scales--
"Let's soar through the skies
With the wind under our wings
Soar higher and higher
We are free

Let's never touch the ground
Let's fly side by side
Sing for me
Just close your eyes"

A Shuli--
Through the seven skies we’ll soar together,
Wing-and-wing we birds of a feather.

I’ll close my eyes and you’ll whisper in my ear:
Your heart’s breath stoking my song to a cry for the silent night to hear

By Mahmoud Darwish
If I Were a Hunter

If a hunter I were
I’d give the gazelle
a chance, and another,
and a third, and a tenth,
to doze a little. My share
of the ***** would be
peace of mind under
her dozing head.

I have the power to vanquish
but that I relinquish,
and I become as pure
as the water where
she comes for a drink.

If a hunter I were
a fraternity I’d declare
with the gazelle:
“Don’t be scared of the rifle,
wretched sister, it’s a trifle.”
And we would listen, safe from harm,
to the wolf’s howls in a distant farm.

Oh would that I could,
give you my words, I would.
again and again if only I could.
but though at times my words thunder like the hoovs of a stampede
and their echoes rise like the dust that it leaves behind:

and Though at other times when they whisper like the breeze--like the froth atop the ocean
that you travel--They, they
Seldomly come hither when the shepherd whistles.

Hello Busy bee, just like me.
Oh were you to be free--are you happy?
As happy as I wish you to be? Do you see? Do you see?

It’s me. Oh how I am so filled with glee at the sound of your voice.
Hehehe Hahaha laugh for me :)

Though once an inferno, now

burning still in me--
only as an ember.

An Ember flickering,
waiting for
For the poet to bank it with the ashes of its consumed kindling.

This. This only until hope
can once more rekindle
the spring rain.

Oh how cruel are the walls that silence my beloved.

Running down. Chasing
Words forgotten. Never fleeing.

The earth breathing
Eyes seeing. Not looking.
Hearing your wonder. Feeling your awe.
I am the wind, the echo of my iron-shod hooves raw and unceasing.

The drums sound,
They thunder off a roll call.
Present and accounted for is your head,
Splayed raw on the pillow:
A bowling ball of led.

Eyes shuttered
mind can’t help but think how opening them will sound:
A screeching nails on chock board wail echoing through the empty grotto of your right eye.

Not to mention the rusty needle digging out
a radioactive maggot through your right ear: slowly
Boiling simmering festering carelessly twisting on the way out.

The drums sound,
They thunder off a roll call.
Present and accounted for is your head,
One was all it wanted.
One beat to go through the skin of the drum
Until you realize the drum is your heart and still: you see a pierced drum and
Its pain becomes your pain. a violently pierced drum and again

The drums sound,
They thunder off a roll call.
Present and accounted for is your head,
A led balloon gyroscope looking down at the bathroom sink.

No, I don’t think I have a migraine today.
Nothing a pare of  The darkest cheep sunglasses,
Six  or eight pills of whatever,
And a couple of cigarettes can’t put a dent into.

The drums sound,
They thunder off a roll call.
Sound off, left (left first because it hurts less) right. Left,
Right, left

”Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?“
—Frida Kahlo

Are you real?
by Megan Lacey

Are you real?
I'm afraid that you're the product of my fevered reveries
Though I could never conjure such perfection
In form and nobility of mind.

Are you real?
It's been so long since I've known such a dream
Of a angel, with
All the elven mischief of an April afternoon.

Are you real?
I am sure that if I touched you, you'd just melt away
Like the morning mist in the hills and the valleys
A lovely vision of what life ought to be.

Are you real?
I ask this question to the starlight
Which seems reflect in your midnight eyes

Are you real?
Is this face which is so suddenly
Familiar to me as my own
Truly there?

And if you are....
Am I real to you?

by Megan Lacey