A lyricist empiricist
Ought not, he thought
Try to resist
Each twitch with which
He'd twist his wrist to write
Yet each syllable was killable
And he'd believed
Unlivable
He'd wronged his song
which longed for stronger bite
Oh, too confused, I've lost my muse
My way, astray
My art, refused
I sit, I pit
my whit against the pain
Though dark and dry, maybe I'm
Through new found sound,
Inspired by
A new excuse
My muse won't be the same
Author notes
This one's for you max. 'taint the same.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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...this is sad but how you used the words here- it's really cool!...nice!
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Riving
As you know, I can find no fault with this. Completely breathtaking and rending - it falls on my tongue like acid snowflakes, lithesome with cadence, leadened with candor. Lovely lovely lovely.
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