Damn you, murderer.
Sometimes I don’t believe it exists…
Other times it’s as real as my pen, the paper, my body.
It waits for me…
What am I supposed to do?
A hundred thousand ideas, thoughts, images and feelings surging through my mind…
And yet they refuse to leave that sanctuary.
Are they afraid of the outside world?
What if they are slaughtered, erased from other minds as quickly as…
Gone, already.
I’d be afraid, too…
I’d be sympathetic, if they had any right to their own existence!
They’re mine; my ideas, thoughts and images, these feelings are mine!
But, no.
They have help, something that hates my muse…
She’s murdered; lost; taken; hidden; hiding?
I wish she’d come back.
