some days
the words
just flow
appearing
on the page
not belonging
to you
conduit
of prose
expressing
human frailty
passionate
trembling
remembered
moments
then on
other days
whiteness glares
ghostly haunting
pulling you
toward
creations
once upon
a time
yet to bloom.
at times I feel this same, in painting- somehow if my Self goes absent,the painting, or the Muse, or just thin air completes the work…
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good poems today! Life can also be God!
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I really understand you, our muse is really tricky eh? 🙂
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Indeed! 🙂
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