it was a
and small footsteps in
soughing behind windows;
if one were to cry
out, none would
if anyone should ask,
i left in search of a muse
to make even my despair
don’t know when i’ll be
This entry was posted on April 22, 2010 by joanna. It was filed under life, mental illness, self, thoughts, writing and was tagged with desperation, inspiration, muse, spring.
muses are overrated
they are tempremental and mine drinks all of my wine
May 4, 2010 at 4:11 pm
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