Happiness is a sea and I'll drown to death in it.
Limp body, cold hands don't create.
They evoke.
Look at Ophelia, dead. Look at divine madness.
What no one tells you about being a muse is that
it makes you jealous. Just as much as it makes you loved.
"Why am I not the poet? Why are you?" Yada Yada.
You get my fucking point. And I shut the fuck up.
It's all pretentious anyways. To be or not to be;
Is that a question anymore?
Entropy is good in science as long as you don't give
birth to one.
Then it's a burden. Then it's sadness. Then you find it
Seeking happiness leaving the trail of destruction behind.
Then it's a poet. Then it's a muse.
Then it kills itself. The end. Symbolically loved forever.
Trapped in papers and printing inks and metaphysics.
Hatred also makes muses. Melpomene-inspired
Worlds and murder-loving neurotoxins spilled on papers.
Love reduces me to abstract forms. I am a muse. Jealousy and jealousy and
jealousy and jealousy and the urge to cut off hands. Mine or the poets'.
And love, larger than the grieving, rupturing the heart. And thus, narcissism
glaring through my mannerism. "I am a muse! Are you?" A declaration.
All leading up to self-inflicted death.
I write when I feel low, so let me save you some time and not write in details. Also, I am very happy because I met some amazing friends and they often dedicate their poetries to me. I love my friends to the moon and back!! This poetry is in NO way against them. In fact, a lot of things are exaggerated here. I am kind of jealous how well they write. Although that's not all there is to my feelings. I feel loved and cherished. I want to write a journal entry dedicated to them one of these days... I wish I was good at writing positive poetries. If I ever write one, I will probably dedicate it to my friends.. Anyways, a wiki article about Melpomene.