Written by In 20,000 shots I have not yet found a single subject or composition
Who compares to this muse.
And her grim smile creasing cold flushed cheeks gracing my lens.
Even a critical note or nod of appreciation would enthrall me,
She commands respect from everyone she meets
The room gets hot if you see her looking,
and you’ll never know what she’s thinking.
When days stuck with me should have been bleak or mundane
She’s always been just, kind and just lovely.
I wasn’t made for that beauty-
I was hammered out
From a smitten kiln, smithed in haste with all rhyme and no reason
No adornments were wasted on me, just overwritten commitments
and a big lead weight on my chest.
So, her mere acquaintance is like an anomaly
It never should have been
Within, and just out of reach in the first place.
I’m like an afflicted and despondent, who knows what he can’t have.
That’s not a good place to be in, as a “man”.
My arms may get tired from the weight of my growing self-pity.
I just want her to think of me,
And be amused
and I never really believed in a muse
but it’s shown to be a painfully apparent fact of artistry;
whether we like it or not:
My soul belongs to you.
My blues are because of you
Every wholesome thought and happy ending I write
begins with you.
My hues turn cold, and my canvas stays blank without you.
I need you like you need paint,
Like the earth needs a moon,
Like fish need water, like we need oxygen;
I suppose, like an artist needs a muse.