there's this place i know
where it snows elegant white
where the graceful glow gallivants
with dangerous defiance in night.
to draft correspondence is criminal
and would force their hand
to eradicate infected people like myself
this place is anywhere you and i
share words and air

i can see your castle walls
from my bedroom window
i've been hiding under the mattress
counting the lines in the corner
only to put everything in perspective

the cat  steals  my tongue
when i see your pretty face
and my words  start to race
fighting to get along
you often  wonder why am i so shy
you say ,  you  should at least try
try , make an effort to talk
i know you're just worried 
  that i'll fade away alone in the dark.

I always loved the idea of a muse by my side, gifting me with inspiration. Maybe it made me feel less alone. Maybe that is why I feel so lonely and empty when I can't write.
Psychology tells me that authors and artists are commonly more unhappy than those whose jobs rely on logical black and white thinking.
But would we have it any other way?
What beauty is there in a world made of only black and white?
Where would we be without our words and pictures and our inspired sessions at four am when the thunder brings to mind an image that you mustn't forget?
The scrawled poems on napkins and foggy bathroom mirrors and the doodles of nightmares in the margins of my calculus notes,
I would be lost without it. I am lost without it.
So if a muse is what I'm lacking, please come back, muse.

my telescope, a
layer of dust, I haven't
seen the sky in years

perhaps it's because i can't draw that i write.
if i can persuade someone to create the image in their own head,
am i still the artist?

*(e.f.)