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As artists
we are supposed to
make beautiful things
out of nothing
I have a hundred thousand
at my feet
but I need to be
in love all the time
to have
a wall to stick them to
a window to string them out on

It’s how I do it
and I never knew any other way
my bloody beating heart
has been on my sleeve
everyday for years
it’s covered in wounds
and bruises
and the fingerprints
of everyone who’s been there
but it was a bargain
as the price
of all the fine things
I’ve given birth to
with the heap of words
within my reach
just waiting
for the next inspiration
to sweep in
that would grant my hands
the skill to pluck out
the ripest ones
and serve them up
in a gleaming dish

It’s not you.
It’s me.
It’s the way I suck
the marrow out of life
You’re my muse
at least today
maybe tomorrow too
or not

don’t be scared of me

since you’re an artist too
if I explain it to you
this way
would you get it?