Requiem for a Muse.

[Catharsis]

At times I'm barely strong enough to filter this flood of thoughts through my palms onto these PAGES. fuck rhyme schemes I'm couRAGEOUS, ... advanTAGEOUS... the GREATEST. well that's the INCLINATION.

Other times I'm tearing scabs off my knuckles, looking for some INSPIRATION.
Trying to force the flame with IMITATION, hoping that I'm STOKING IT. inevitably, indefinitely, irreparably CHOKING IT.
So what is the relationship between my muse, this paper and these WORDS?
As the seeds to the trees to the BIRDS?
The sheepdog to a HERD?
A beat to a DOPE HOOK?
Am I master or slave to the forces that propel me into this NOTEBOOK?
It makes me live...and it's killing me, while forcing me TO DREAM OF YOU.
Definitely, probably, resting somewhere BETWEEN THE TWO.

Writing without motivation is like masturbating flaccid, nothing will COME FROM IT.
Like beating my balls against the wall until I go NUMB FROM IT...
Yet here I sit, dick in hand, high as hell, don't GET ME STUCK...trying to remember what it was like the last time she LET ME FUCK.

There was a time when I was able to speak sensually to MY MUSE.
She be amused by the moves, supposed to smooth that I USED.
I'd kiss her collarbone with my words, tickle her spine with my rhymes, never mind while the TIME LAPSED...I'd pull her hair when she felt tough and hold her softly while she CLIMAXED.
Then, after the peak rushed, her cheeks flushed with warmth and SATISFACTION...
we'd speak of matters with TACT AND PASSION, of now and then and AS IT HAPPENED.
...she would whisper into my ear images of perfect logic and impossible SCOPE.
Laying her head on my chest, I haven't a need for HOPE.
I feel the relationship between the urge to create and the love for the art in HARMONY.
The ego death of true emotion, a weapon for my ARMORY.
I'd run my hand down the gentle slope of her lower back and watch her fade like steam into my DREAM STATE.
When we were young lovers the world was so much more beautiful...it SEEMED FAKE.
And then it SEEMS FATE had DEEMED WEIGHT divide us... so I'd WAKE UP VEXED.
I was lucky if we'd fist fight and have angry MAKE UP SEX.
Usually settling for the cheap pornography of chemical ENLIGHTENMENT.
Stumbling, wondering where all the thunder and the LIGHTING WENT.
Jerking off quick poems into napkins and tossing the words into garbage cans for embarrassment and SHAME. For every thing feeling the SAME, TAME, nauseatingly irrelevant and LAME.

Maybe it's the rhyme's she's afraid of.
My lady stayed locked up in her room all day most of the time.
I tried to make myself more physically appealing to her but she's not interested in appearances.
I couldn't coerce her back into my life with the pills or the drink.
The older we get the less she talks to me through the smoke.
She's above all that, despite our past addictions.
I tried to convince myself I don't actually need her anymore, but as you can see...
... she's all I think about.


In her absence I can't seem to find where I put myself.
So I sit here, my wrists bleeding nonsense about her all over this world of mine.
When I run out of paper I take it outdoors and leak what's left of me on the nearest surface.
Single sentences of strangely self destructive realizations.
Scattered randomly across the city, on bridges and under freeways.
Growing in dark places with nothing to feed them but the urge.


Maybe she's trying to teach me something, in a fucked up way I can see that now.
We are not lovers... we are a balance of action and emotion.
She is not my muse, she is my crutch.
Without the negative connotation to the term.
She holds me up when I'm crippled, until that time I can walk again.
Helps me to move forward when I'm not sure how.

Wow...

Nowadays I work till jump, just perFECTING MY NEXUS.
on my off days getting blazed and drunk TEXTING MT EXES.

fuck it.

[Catharsis]

At times I'm barely strong enough to filter this flood of thoughts through my palms onto these PAGES. fuck rhyme schemes I'm couRAGEOUS, ... advanTAGEOUS... the GREATEST. well that's the INCLINATION.

Other times I'm tearing scabs off my knuckles, looking for some INSPIRATION.
Trying to force the flame with IMITATION, hoping that I'm STOKING IT. inevitably, indefinitely, irreparably CHOKING IT.
So what is the relationship between my muse, this paper and these WORDS?
As the seeds to the trees to the BIRDS?
The sheepdog to a HERD?
A beat to a DOPE HOOK?
Am I master or slave to the forces that propel me into this NOTEBOOK?
It makes me live...and it's killing me, while forcing me TO DREAM OF YOU.
Definitely, probably, resting somewhere BETWEEN THE TWO.

Writing without motivation is like masturbating flaccid, nothing will COME FROM IT.
Like beating my balls against the wall until I go NUMB FROM IT...
Yet here I sit, dick in hand, high as hell, don't GET ME STUCK...trying to remember what it was like the last time she LET ME FUCK.

There was a time when I was able to speak sensually to MY MUSE.
She be amused by the moves, supposed to smooth that I USED.
I'd kiss her collarbone with my words, tickle her spine with my rhymes, never mind while the TIME LAPSED...I'd pull her hair when she felt tough and hold her softly while she CLIMAXED.
Then, after the peak rushed, her cheeks flushed with warmth and SATISFACTION...
we'd speak of matters with TACT AND PASSION, of now and then and AS IT HAPPENED.
...she would whisper into my ear images of perfect logic and impossible SCOPE.
Laying her head on my chest, I haven't a need for HOPE.
I feel the relationship between the urge to create and the love for the art in HARMONY.
The ego death of true emotion, a weapon for my ARMORY.
I'd run my hand down the gentle slope of her lower back and watch her fade like steam into my DREAM STATE.
When we were young lovers the world was so much more beautiful...it SEEMED FAKE.
And then it SEEMS FATE had DEEMED WEIGHT divide us... so I'd WAKE UP VEXED.
I was lucky if we'd fist fight and have angry MAKE UP SEX.
Usually settling for the cheap pornography of chemical ENLIGHTENMENT.
Stumbling, wondering where all the thunder and the LIGHTING WENT.
Jerking off quick poems into napkins and tossing the words into garbage cans for embarrassment and SHAME. For every thing feeling the SAME, TAME, nauseatingly irrelevant and LAME.

Maybe it's the rhyme's she's afraid of.
My lady stayed locked up in her room all day most of the time.
I tried to make myself more physically appealing to her but she's not interested in appearances.
I couldn't coerce her back into my life with the pills or the drink.
The older we get the less she talks to me through the smoke.
She's above all that, despite our past addictions.
I tried to convince myself I don't actually need her anymore, but as you can see...
... she's all I think about.


In her absence I can't seem to find where I put myself.
So I sit here, my wrists bleeding nonsense about her all over this world of mine.
When I run out of paper I take it outdoors and leak what's left of me on the nearest surface.
Single sentences of strangely self destructive realizations.
Scattered randomly across the city, on bridges and under freeways.
Growing in dark places with nothing to feed them but the urge.


Maybe she's trying to teach me something, in a fucked up way I can see that now.
We are not lovers... we are a balance of action and emotion.
She is not my muse, she is my crutch.
Without the negative connotation to the term.
She holds me up when I'm crippled, until that time I can walk again.
Helps me to move forward when I'm not sure how.

Wow...

Nowadays I work till jump, just perFECTING MY NEXUS.
on my off days getting blazed and drunk TEXTING MT EXES.

fuck it.

[RhetoriK]

Nice one here Cath. I like the fact that this self/rant exploration could be done in about 30 seconds to a minute anywhere (driving down the road, walking somewhere, etc) but you found a way to bullet time a thought and run with it. Also like the contrast between gentleman and douchebag. I dunno if it was the wording but it was a good mix of terming. Keep it up bruh.

[RhetoriK]

Nice one here Cath. I like the fact that this self/rant exploration could be done in about 30 seconds to a minute anywhere (driving down the road, walking somewhere, etc) but you found a way to bullet time a thought and run with it. Also like the contrast between gentleman and douchebag. I dunno if it was the wording but it was a good mix of terming. Keep it up bruh.

[Catharsis]

This man understands me..... We'd be friends in real life fam... I'm sure of it.

[Catharsis]

This man understands me..... We'd be friends in real life fam... I'm sure of it.

[Catharsis]

Bumped...more feedback would be dope.

[Catharsis]

Bumped...more feedback would be dope.