I’ll always be the poet but never the muse and very rarely is there an inkling for anybody to wonder about me as I splash ink across blank pages, amid the sheer chaos of sorrow and tranquil solitude.

For somebody to feel each character, pulsing through their veins, losing their breath as I run through their minds with heavy hands and fingers that twitch in the same way that mine do.

With emotions like an ocean that I can no longer mute or the sharp edge on the tip of my tongue that bleeds every last syllable that echoes silently, the ball-point tip that illustrates each pronunciation that slices through paper like a blade.

Nobody has ever twisted my name between metaphors in the same slight manner that I do theirs or felt the lyrics to a love song coursing through their body. I’m never the topic of choice but rather the broken genius behind hidden artifacts. Always the antagonist but never quite the protagonist.

She who shall not be named, the unmentionable mystery that crafts paragraphs from concepts, the storyteller but never the topic, building herself upon beginnings and endings.

I’ll always be the poet but never the muse, pouring out my guarded heart and offering a glass to whoever will listen.