Like a poem with only half their stanzas
My stories mostly fractured
Incomplete

Missing words and jumping tenses
My reader focuses
Only on the typographical

We all live and die by our words
Some faster than others
Some freefalling

My own self-doubt seemingly accurate
And how that hurts
To read

I should write of brighter days and hopes and dreams
Of frantic wonder and joy
Of infinite splendor

But I cannot decide what to write
I’ve learned the hard way to scorn them all
Words

My muse once called me to marry a woman
Who would bear me children
But who ultimately left me penniless

My muse once called me to record my music
And I sang my brains out  for her
As she led me into bankruptcy

My muse once called upon me to write a novel
Dragging out the next ten years of my life
Kicking and screaming as I starved with my obsession

For no purpose whatsoever I still listen
Her siren song
Not a word of it ever true