Augusten Burroghs once said,
"I, myself am entirely made of flaws,
Stitched together with good intentions."
He must feel just like me;
Paper fingers and wire joints,
A head stuffed full with cotton,
A doll on display for the world to
see, touch, and pity.
My mother tried all too hard,
she really did.

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.