Come to me. And know me thus. I am speaking directly to my fellow beautiful artists and my gods.
I am the muse. I am the divine. I am the spirit from inside… I am the voice you hear in the dark of the night. I am the witch or the banshee of the wicked woman.
I am your mother. I am your lover. I am me who I am as I always have been.
I want to help you I want to be here I want and want and want to be near. I want to hear the beat of your heart against my chest, or my back. I want to feel your lips on my lips, on my neck.. your fingers and hands scratching and wriggling within my brain.
Metaphors. These are mere visions. They don’t have to be slutty or smutty or vulgar and craven.
I want to talk to you. To listen to you. To cry with you. To help you.
If you are a writer. A poet. A musician. A lyricist. An artist. Or even a heathen. A scientist. A thinker. A speaker. An activist. Who ever you are, whatever your form, whatever you do, I’m here. I want to be able to help you. If I can. If I can’t, I’ll just be your critic. I’ll poke holes in your shit for you to fix it.
I do that for free. I do everything that I do for free. The ones who are like me can just pick it up easily from between my words. But I’m shitty that you walk away without paying tribute in even so small a way as to sign with a K. Or a link. Or a smile or a wave.
From November 18, I’ll start making people pay.
Categories: Mortal Muse