You were my muse, but you lost that.
A muse is a goddess, a piece of perfection that pulls men forward… upward.
You are so far from perfect, a shattered and tattered soul with a million flaws.
You will never again be that perfect statue on my mantle that demands prayer and praise.
You are my poem.
Imperfect and misshapen.
Rife with abstruse adages deliberately designed with a little alliteration and a terrible… meter?
Words seem misspelled like “didn’t you mean ripe” and “obtuse doesn’t have an ‘r’” yet there they are, perfectly shaped and chosen.
Your life, like this poem has been through hell and back…dragged kicking and screaming… giggling up and down the halls of my mind making me wonder if I’m alone.
Every flaw you see in the mirror and everything past lovers grew to hate about you has made you a bundle of rough edges and corners but I just see handles.
Like this poem you are just a collection of convenient pieces that I grasp for to make sense of things.
Your life has no grand purpose or form.
Some people live life by the numbers, but you never have and you never will; the rules just don’t apply.
There is nothing that makes this a poem. There is no grand design.
When do letters thrown on a page become a poem and when are they just words and broken sentences that run on forever and follow no rules of grammar and therefore can’t be called a story?
When do a million memories thrown at a canvas become art and not just a cluttered drawer in the kitchen that we hope our guests never open?
When did your life become so important that this moment that our paths crossed will leave eternal fingerprints in the forever soft Play-doh I call my mind.
You are not a goddess. You are not perfect. You are not my muse.
You are my poem.