I only wrote prose before I met you. My musings were superfluous and serious as well. But now the words dance with me. I sing with them and we create poetry.
The βMuseβ is not an artistic mystery, but a mathematical equation. The gift are those ideas you think of as you drift to sleep. The giver is that one you think of when you first awake.
Dear Muse, I was just now standing in the balcony and watching the rain drops fall from the sky and suddenly I felt this beautiful feeling. The magical feeling that you are in my life. You came into my life and you have made my life truly special. How many people can say that they receive unconditional love from a beautiful and inspiring girl? A girl who writes amazingly well. A girl who who is achingly pretty and totally kind. When you are near her, she touches the innermost corners of your heart. Before she arrives she brings with her the fragrance of a million jasmines. A girl who is the tenderness of the rose petals. A girl who is the magic of a full moon night! Yours sincerely,
Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a glass-tree. Near yourself you hear the brutal rumor of inextricable desire. Night blindly mine. You're farther gone than me. Horror of checking for you in the screams of my poem. Your name is the disease of things at midnight. They had promised me one silence. Your face is closer to me than my own. Phantom memory. How I'd love to kill you β