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.