The poem that can’t be written

A poet struggling with the unrequited love of their muse
Published on Spillwords in 2016

And so it starts; the question of the ending begins.

Knowing you can’t love me.
But your arms can hold me home
Knowing you can’t need me
And I can’t bear to be alone…

Omnipresent stuttering holds the pen fast in my grasp
And the juxtaposition of my desire is disillusioned fast.
Tortollogy of my feelings fall fast upon the page
But ink kills the creation –Contorted –

A cadaverous stage.

The words won’t come and the rhyme won’t scan,
My heart holds me hostage, I hope when I can.

The rhythm’s unfixed and my muse is dead
Everything stops when you’re in my head.
You’re a muse for my silence and the lust of my pain
You inspire me to fall apart and unravel once again.

Love can be surreal it can take on any form
For me it’s in the darkness,

for me it won’t conform.

Maybe it’s unrequited and my mind won’t let it be
But each glance we get is a shard of sun and each time… I feel I’m free.

I’ve killed you with these scribblings, love is strong, the spell is fading.
My entanglement’s absurd – what emotion is this parading?

Thank you.
I’m lost.

I love you… But what’s the cost?

A poem that can’t be written and a muddle in my mind
I think it’s time to love you more…

or leave my murdered muse behind…

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