The OtherSide Poetess

I miss my words as they were.

I miss that fever, that stomach rush when a phrase launches me into a poet trance or a prose-hole.

I miss the story idea, the conjuring and calling forth of characters living and breathing and growing inside me.

I miss my inability to shut up in the swamp of misery or obsessive lust.

I miss those who inspires the best in me.

I miss focused me, creative me, tortured artist me.

Content squashes passion.
Loss of hope helps you become stagnant and I’ve always said unrequited love and misery is my muse fire.

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One thought on “The OtherSide Poetess

  1. I kinda wonder wonder why you left yr intensity/yr capital B Beauty-factory & suspect the usual suspects; crisis, or necessity calls out “it’s time to sa low down or die more”, or something outside of yrself sternly warns & wakes you “That’s enough” & new directions are a must.

Honesty Above All

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