inspiration has abandoned me.
my sweet-tongued muses,
alabaster skin and pearly eyes
with hands to kill and blunt teeth to chew
upon the entrails of their written victims;
so perfect in their beauty, and yet
so wasted in their repulsive etiquette...
they have torn my mind asunder
and fled into the fluorescence of night,
dancing as though they were heathen children,
wild and careless in the midst of their euphoria.
what cancerous sores have they yet left
upon my frail, incomplete existence?
they have burned away the forests of my thought
and left me naked and eyeless in the desert.
their taunts and suggestions reach my ears,
but the noise is only gibberish now.
the fruits of my imagination remain, but they taste
as though they are ash, filthy and unfulfilling.
all that i reach for, all who i try to draw close to me
leave me with a blizzard in my heart
that chills me to the very marrow of my bone.
hungry, i cry out forr reprieve
but this voice is not my own.
no, my inspiration has abandoned me
and in its place, there is nothing but memory left.
i can't live like this.