It is private,
inviolate.
Yet, I intrude,
dress up and abuse,
take their suffering
as my perfect muse,
take dark interludes,
and use them as cues,
as tiny clues
that lead the way
to make poems great.
Sorrowful inflections
become wordy reflections
worked to perfection
for my ego’s elevation,
for the ecstasy of creation,
and this drug I imbibe
gets me super freaking high.
Tears and stress,
bodies undressed,
hearts exposed
and in taking those
I become criminal.
Liminal moments,
seconds stolen
for the sake
of verses swollen
with emotional clarity.
I claim sincerity;
That I write these lines
to help closed mind
break the barriers
between truth
and what emotions mean.
But as these words meander on,
I wonder is it right or wrong
to write the painful songs
that do not belong to me.
