My Muse – It
My muse has no face, no eyes to meet, no lips to whisper.
It hums in the dark corridors of my mind,
a firefly in the stomach of a sleeping whale.
I wake to the sound of its laughter,
delicate as a glass bead breaking on marble.
Its breath is the hush between rain and thunder,
its fingers, a braid of ivy climbing up the spine of my thoughts.
Today, it wears the scent of oranges left too long in the sun.
Tomorrow, it might be a crow collecting silver,
its beak tapping riddles into the sky,
leaving ink-stained footprints across my ribs.
It wears the bones of forgotten languages as jewelry,
clicking, clacking, whispering syllables I almost understand.
It rearranges my words when I sleep,
spills vowels like wine across the white sheets of my dreams.
Sometimes it is a woman,
her hair tangled with constellations,
her eyes holding the weight of unwritten stories.
She hums old lullabies that taste like salt and wind.
Other times, it is a shadow,
stretching across walls, mocking my every hesitation.
It dances where I cannot, bends where I break.
It is the echo of footsteps in an empty museum,
a frame with no portrait, a song without melody.
I chase it through the alleys of my thoughts,
barefoot, breathless, brimming with want.
It flickers just beyond reach,
a mirage in the heat of an unwritten stanza.
When I think I have captured it,
it turns to smoke, to static, to silence.
When I turn away, it tugs at my sleeve,
whispers secrets in a language I do not yet know.
It lives in the space between letters,
in the pause before the final period.
My muse is not a thing I hold,
not a face I can trace with ink.
It is the whisper between heartbeats,
the absence that fills the page.
My Muse – She
She arrives without knocking, without asking, without needing permission. She is the storm between my ribs, the ink spilled in my veins. She does not whisper. She howls. A tempest in lace, a ghost in shattered glass, a deity in rags.
Her eyes— Do they have color? They shift, they blur, they undulate. A blue too deep for oceans, a gold too fierce for flames, A shade stolen from the hour before dusk. They reflect everything and nothing, a mirror of unfinished thoughts.
Her hands— They tear through the silence, unthreading time like a loose seam. They carve stories into the marrow of my bones. They are calloused and soft, rough with creation, gentle with ruin. She touches my mind, and synapses combust like shooting stars.
Her mouth— It does not speak in words, only riddles and echoes. It unspools laughter that melts clocks, sorrow that warps light. It stitches paradoxes into the fabric of reality. She breathes, and alphabets collapse, rearrange, reassemble.
She wears everything and nothing— A cloak woven from forgotten poetry, A crown of rusted keys to doors never opened, A dress sewn from moonlight and moth wings, Barefoot, unshackled, wreathed in quiet rebellion.
She moves— Not in steps but in ruptures, in seismic shifts of understanding. She dances on the precipice of consciousness, A silhouette against the curtain of waking dreams. Every motion is a sentence I have yet to write.
She is not kind. She is not cruel. She is relentless, a tidal wave that drags me under, A wildfire that leaves only words in its wake. She kisses my skull, presses ink into my palms.
She sleeps in the space between heartbeats, Hums in the gaps between thoughts, Watches from the periphery of perception. She is there when I close my eyes, and still there when I open them.
She is the hunger that gnaws at my fingers, The fever that burns through my chest, The voice that speaks when my own falls silent. She is my muse. She is everything I cannot explain.
She looks like the first dream I ever forgot. She looks like the last word I will ever write.
My Muse – He
He arrives with the weight of untold myths, a tempest stitched into the fabric of my breath. He does not creep. He does not wait. He is the thunder before the lightning, the ink that bleeds before the quill ever touches the page.
His presence warps the air, bends the silence like heat against glass. He does not smile. He does not scowl. His face is carved from paradox, shifting like moonlit waves. One moment, he is all sharp angles, a blade pressed against the throat of complacency. The next, he is liquid, dissolving into the spaces between seconds.
His hands— They are architects of chaos, sculptors of meaning. They grip time by the throat and unravel it thread by thread. With one touch, they ignite constellations inside my skull, galaxies bursting into words too vast to contain. He writes in the language of destruction and rebirth, carving epiphanies into the marrow of my bones.
His voice— It does not comfort. It does not coddle. It arrives like the first crack of ice over deep water, a whisper that shatters, a sonnet with edges. It echoes between my ribs, insistent, relentless. He speaks in riddles made of fire, in lullabies built from ruin. Every syllable is a command, every pause a prophecy.
He wears time like a fraying cloak, stitched from moments I have yet to live. His eyes hold the weight of futures unwritten, dreams half-formed, stories begging to be set free. They burn with the ghosts of unfinished lines, flickering between knowing and forgetting.
He does not wait for permission. He seizes me by the pulse, drags me through labyrinths of thought, demands that I follow. He does not gift inspiration. He demands sacrifice. He does not whisper encouragement. He hurls me into the abyss and waits to see if I will climb out with poetry in my fists.
He does not love me. He does not need to. He exists beyond affection, beyond tenderness. He is the fever in my bloodstream, the tremor in my hands before the words spill forth. He arrives when I least expect him, disappears when I need him most.
He lingers in the margins of my sanity, a shadow moving just beyond reach. I chase him through the corridors of my mind, but he is always faster, always ahead, always leading me somewhere I have not yet dared to go.
He is the echo of forgotten tongues, the sigh of ink drying on parchment, the weight of an idea too heavy to hold yet impossible to set down. He is the terror of an empty page, the ecstasy of filling it.
He is not here to comfort. He is here to burn, to break, to remake.
He is my muse. He is every word I will never regret writing.
#WritingLife #Creativity #Muse #Poetry #Inspiration #ArtisticJourney #LiteraryThoughts
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