the beautiful muse beauty beyond the restrictive nature of language Woe is me, unable to describe such radiance. the problem of a wordsmith.
conclusions lead to new inspiration but conclusion, leads forced end to eternal broken wheels The Beauty of language stifled by despotic definitions
The Muse has my soul she squeezes my ******* and won't let go until I write her songs
explosions of spastic action muscles under the command of a proverbial *****.
life mundane, like an addiction music getting sweeter and life around brings only apathy
all that matters is the swaying hips of the muse the heat of her groin the atmospheric morphing of the air around her whispering every word that is to be written her hands over mine as I type her breath on my cheek
she visited me not as a first Witman, Ginsburg, Burroghs, Kerouac, from all she demanded verse and chapter
from me, from them, centuries old games.
This is a dramatization of spontaneous inspiration. The rest is to your interpretation. Also I have no idea if this is considered "obscene" So, I marked it as Explicit anyway. I hate grey areas.