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topacio Oct 2022
I awoke this morning and
wondered if I was even sentient.
The curtains failed to close
over my lids once more,
forcing my mind's actors to
repeat their tired monologues.

They wax on about regrets,
and the lovers who failed
to pass the test of time,  
friends too for that matter,
recipes that will be born
in the upcoming week,
and the subtle noises
emanating from the
dark corners of my room.

Try as I might to pull
the rope of my velvet curtain,
there remains my lead actor
once more trying to
prove her point that
the road to success is
in the wee hours
of the morning,
right here and now.
The entrance on my desk,
where the muses like to offer
me cement for my tired bricks,

even though I have been
harping on about how they
have been doing their
timeless work of threading
inspiration into my flesh
in the afternoons as of late,  
amidst the heatwave when
the citizens of the world
recoil inside their homes
to escape the sweat and
throngs of people who
leave me weary during
the early hours of
the morning.
Maria Mitea Jul 2021
sunrise promised to wait for us
the dawn did not rise over the village,
in the eyes of the muses
the dawn promised to wait for us

muses are not like poets,
not even like the sun
burns its rays on the cascades moved by lazy waves,

- the dawn did not rise over the village,
the down promised to wait for us,
swore to the muses,
swore that the water would comb at the rising sun
it will burn in his eyes like the star of the night while planting a garden
the muses smolder all year round like flowers, or
like coal extracted from the hearts of poets,
Ayesha Jul 2021
Flowers fight flowers
To aridity
In my chest
Such is a penance
Must paid
For your distant benevolence

A liveliness so ecstatic
It slays and slays
All bits
Of melancholy peace
I’ve known
Lust you,

I lust you to war
Lust you, I lust you on
Nothing purer dare I claim
Lest the Sirens
Within your gaze
Question the chastity
I have so well known

There is a desolation
Beneath this devouring tide
And you do not get me
You do not understand
I have always
Loved bleakness
Have always loved
A piece or two
Of you

And here
Bees fight bees
And the carnage
Weaves you a golden dirge
Soft as satin and softer still
Will you not hear—
Will you not?

I sink and sink
with the fair maidens
Who lured me to stillness
And not a note
Not a tune stirs its gentle wings

Your mute Muses
They know not a taste
Of hues
And I lure myself
Into you

How awfully beautiful
Is our dance
How bleak—
stillhuman Apr 2021
An artist in name fact and form
I keep on creating a reality that's torn
from the Truth and its Lies
that forced me still to stay blind
with no passion nor time
to mind the withering eyes
in my portraits
But artist I stay
even when my brushes lay
on a white cold place
and my muse has died
through the shapes that she tried
to take on and survive
so she walked out the door
and the colours are no more
with my hands painting still
the lonely emptiness of my core
Maria Etre Mar 2021
He blew me a kiss
that blew my muses
        n                    a                 e               f                   h   o
i                    o                 s                 o          e        p            r                aaaaa
         ­       t                                   a                     u                           i
Patrice A Mar 2021
I spent all those years
painting achromatic smiles
on my sad muses.
Kaliya Skye Jan 2021
it's electric
chilling to the touch
can't let go of the idea

your hands gliding
down my arms
to grasp my hands

it's a silly i suppose
the way i dream of you
but i can't help it

have we met before?
or do you stay here
during waking life?

locked away, as i remain.
longing for the moments of rest
where i'll still find you

do you wait for me?
between delicate dreams
and a fifth dimension?

do you know how you move me?
phantom touches of fingertips
as you look into my eyes?

god, i'd love to be loved
to remember the glow if it,
even for a moment.

to remember how it feels
to wear a borrowed sweater
or to lend mine to a lover

to wear it.
the hug that lasts
'til you decide it's over

to feel it.
the warmth that lingers,
your heart in their sleeves

to breathe it.
the smell of their cologne,
the connected memories of being held

held in a way that let you know
that they never want to let go,
that to do so is a temporary measure

so later on,
they can embrace you once again
reliving the euphoria of human connection

but is it love?
to crave when you are so starved
or is it merely loneliness

to crave the escape of a lover's arms
carefully wrapped around you,
as they whisper low

those sweet nothings,
telling you that you are everything
when you have felt so empty

a resurgence of half-filled cups,
rose-tinted outlooks and lovesick melodies
exchanged glances that form their own languages

and i want so badly
for a name to be honey in my mouth again,
so sweet i am afraid to open up and let it out

i crave so deeply the feeling
of being fully clothed and yet naked,
fully myself and fully in love.

and i may be a romantic,
but i don't need flowers at my door
i don't need you to tell me what your heart is for

i want the little things,
tag teaming the dishes as you tell me your day,
the rough draft of the email you need to send

( if it needs an edit, i promise to be kind )

nothing speaks of love like the mundane,
to share a life; to share even a moment
what else could be so intimate?

i want to know your middle name
or to invent, should you not already possess one
i want to have knowledge that gives fae their power

i want to know your favorite color,
so i can wear it when i'm alone
to encapsulate the meaning

i desire above all else,
to be loved
with only the best intentions

why would the world be beautiful
if every inch of it didn't deserve
to be enveloped by love?

i ponder alone
i'm listening to love songs on repeat until they tell me their stories
what is it like to be a muse? i've only ever written of others,
always the dreamer, never the subject
would i know what to do?
Zyxia Oct 2020
Sometimes the muses gift you with inspiration, meters tall
Sometimes they curse you with none at all.
The muse's presence can be a blessing and a curse,
But I'd still prefer that over the reverse
Maria Etre May 2020
"What is your greatest fear?" he asked.

"For words to flee" she said.
arsonpoet May 2020
You don't have to be alone, to feel empty,
It is a feeling that feeds on you, ebbs your strength,
makes you vulnerable to faith.
You can be in a room full, of happy souls,
and still, the cusp of emptiness might sneak through the door,
and give you a nudge in the direction loneliness.
It is about that strange feeling, that seeks in, like mildew, or vaseline
after a wound, scratching the surface,
barely making contact with the inner skin,
and yet gripping you with pain,  and bleeds of trauma.

When you will look around, you'll see, so many people,
with bright smile on their faces, alluring eyes, the ones,
who look like fountains, beautiful ones with pure purpose.
But, the truth is many among them, are still not what you see.
The crust, the cover of souls are very happy, and yet, there are things missing inside of them.
Somebody who might wish for a kid, somebody who has jiust lost his sister, somebody who has a disease, eating on him,
snatching away his life, meant to be surged atop exuberant mountains.
People hide it so well, you wouldn't notice if you don't look closely.

The pain lives in each of them, feeding, breaking, disintegrating them.
The more they ignore it, the more it hurts.
The fact is accepting, it's a part of you, of who you are,
a fragment of your identity.
Because accepting it, makes you versatile, it makes you understandable.
And once, you are understandable, to people,
You become complete, within yourself, and you don't just barely scratch the surface now,
You go deep into understanding who you really are, and that makes you strong.
Because when that loneliness heals, it is one zeus of a feeling.
Understanding and defeating loneliness among many of us.
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