My muse just told me to fuck off!
She’s been knocking at my door, on my ride into work, on my ride home from
work. I kept telling her, not now, just wait another hour, another day, just one more minute and I’ll get to you. When
I finally open the door to say, “hello”, she turns her back to me, flips me off
with both hands and stomps away before my mouth can move to utter, “Come in and
sit with me.”
My muse just told me to fuck off!
She left me with images and letters too jumbled to be placed into words, too
mangled to be ordered into sentences, too ragged to be dropped into paragraphs. I am left bereft and wanting as she looks back to glower at me.
My muse just told me to fuck off! I am trying to find a way to offer her my condolences, to relinquish my mistakes, but my words fall on deaf eyes, my voice tumbles out to whisper on unseeing ears and my tongue is thick with regret that will not be felt by tasteless hands.
