I sit alone on the flimsy discount foldable chair.
I let myself play with the candle although knowing the repercussions of playing with fire.
I wonder what to write about.
Love no longer haunts my conscious
I no longer have my muse
No one wants to here about a midnight **** binge
Or a short lived unfortunate affection.
I never knew to write simplistically so all of a sudden I’m *******.
Just cause I’m without my muse