Inspiration is a fickle thing.
Leaves and greets me
rarely staying long enough to be useful
though I am used to being
unuseful...

I haven't had a muse in awhile
haven't been a muse in even longer...
It's exciting yet
familiar
These butterflies,
filling up my stomach with
What-if's.

I'm balancing my fervor with
a fear of choking,
Holding back an embrace
at arm's length.
I want so badly to want again
Want so badly
to be wanted
again...

But every second thought and
every fifth, sixth and seventh,
is how at any moment
you might read between my lines
see how fickle
how unuseful
how butterfly-filled
desperate I am
to join the world of muses
again.