This inspiration is different. It’s not from gratitude from a lesson learned, it’s not from the chaotic pain that lesson caused. Is it from fear?

I have so many words inside of me. They keep flowing through me at random times like music notes through a cello string .I have this enormous urge to put ink to paper.

My muse is so different. Like a mirage through the sand, I fear it will fade into the sun with just a slight gusty wind.

So many sentences blended together inside of me. I am trying to put them in order, arrange them, make sense of them all. These words consume me like you’re mouth consumes my skin.

Is this fear that inspires me? This is new. This is different. Most times...All of these times, inspiration has come from the burst of pain that exploded from my center. It spreads all through me bringing me to my knees, unable to speak, unable to walk. All I have is ink to paper. It’s all I have to ease the pain.

But no this is not why. I’m not on my knees consumed by my pain. I’m halfway there, halfway to the sun gleam on my face. But with this doubt on my mind. My muse confuses me, I don’t know if it will fade in to the sky.

You’ve inspired eight pages so far, all the words scattered through all the notebooks scattered in my space. Random words and random sentences. Scattered. You are the reason why. My Muse, I’ve decided to name you.

The words are so loud that they scare me. They fight they’re way through my hands. But my hands are not fast enough and I forget. I forget the feeling I wanted to remember. I know then that I want these word inside me. I Want the words that make sense to it all. Oh you are so different. This inspiration is from fear. Fear that I’m just not right to write in your book. Oh but I have all these words and all these sentences that make no sense. Ink to paper is all I have. It’s  all I have to ease this inspirational fear.