I've changed my face over the years,
and my muse right along with it.
I first found inspiration
in myself, writing words
upon my skin.
But the pen was silver and cold
and the words were red and ugly.
Sadness, a pensive depression,
that was my next muse.
And I wrote,
oh, how I wrote,
works which bled me out
but never did much to help
soothe the ache anyway.
Then for a time I lost myself,
and had no muse to call my own.
And I squandered far too much
precious time stagnating.
Until,
until,
the most unexpected muse arrived
with a sweeping push,
forcing me up.
And now I'm wandering,
though I'm no longer lose,
and with me I have the muse
I never knew I wanted.
You.