More than anything
I hope that you're content
in this time to come
I hope that
the sun will illuminate your vices
and that the moon still reflects upon
your mystery with a stare that threads silver
and I hope that
no person ever
shatters that ego
because it is what you're built upon
I wish you growth and realization
so I am glad you left then
if it means you're content

I am this marble statue
wait
take me to the Pantheon
let me there and give me breath
movement like the fluid aqueducts.
Bathe with me when no one's looking--
we'll escape those gladiators
but
gladiators had no choice either
you see
They were just people stripped of their pale, blue skin,
and now they're entertainers
battling the gout, aurora mirth
of a Leo
a fierce, unforgiving Leo--
and then the aqueducts run dry.
So you can't bathe with me
everybody's watching now
Save me from this
crackling
boiling
blistering
mask;
I don't want to be a statue
*Fleeing from the pantheon

I want to stop and think for a moment
why should I know what the bottom of this glass resembles
Must be a big girl now

Sitting on this rusty balcony
I teeter on the median of self-contempt
and why I latch onto men and women of any kind
so I am the ******* to those who are in the moment
I crave,
yearn for someone better.
Bemymuseyou
Bemymuseworld
I am just a blonde, ribbon-haired child you see
I am not the artist
sitting on a rust balcony
No I'm the child
Not the muse
not the Mother
I am not an author
creator
No I am a child.

I've always ever wanted a muse
with pickled eyes the color of
the dank, polluted snow that haunts the crevices of my city,
Brooklyn.
I've only ever yearned to touch
something bent, but not broken --
like the ligament of your bone.
With what breath do I hold from you,
but fog, smog , sour pears, and a hint of lague
You are the grim beauty to walk the Victorian era
Dashing, lashing --
Oscar Wilde couldn't even spout a witty retort.
Pink lips that incise like the curve of a scalpel
sent Hannibal on his way to salvation
and a voice like the cursive handwriting I could never perfect
Morose, macabre -- these are the terms to coincide with obsession.
In any way,
you have always ever been my muse.

Sweet laughter
still sickens
me.

Would you still speak with me?
Lay still darling
at my expense I give to you
n o t h i n g.