Untitled Muses

I like muse poems.

I wrote this poem out of frustration 
in- depth-
of misinformation
of large degrees
and larger means 

my muse is sad
his hands on my dress
are pale 
your life is long 
your nutrition sustaining 
your eyes Golden Redden Blue !
are full and wide
but he doesn't speak ( too weak?)
( a devilish fellow) by any means

an artist with a sad muse
is a sailor with a lost sail

-the summer is hot
the days are long as he lays lazily on his side
but he is my muse
and i will not be confused
or introduce
to a new source of comfort
or confronted to a new oozing wound
from my own treasonous knife

Muse's are sad creatures
Always craving something to feed
That they can give 

But never make themselves
He is a sad muse 
As i frantically tap the keys
and write the words
in sloppy script 
that he could never write himself 

But my fingers are too swelled 
and my hands leak sweat
and can't always write
so i'm starving my muse
whose hands are too cold to hold 

Until he gives me something better to mold

The End

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