inspiration just comes and slaps
men across the face,
rudely;
without any regard for who they may be.
I find it oddly profound
how she storms in through the doors
of your mind,
without remembering to knock or
to even inform you of her visit
And she doesn’t leave.
No, she lays on you like roses on mahogany caskets and
Her every move is tactfully calculated to produce results,
In form of
Wholesome ballads about the expired hearts of ex-lovers,
Which may or may not have led
To the premature death of
Love,
or
massive expanses of blue skies and
Blinding yellow sun sets between
juxtapositions of purple and grey and rhymes in unspoken
Poetry,
or
A criminally evasive painting hanging beside
its artist's elaborate description in bullet points
piercing your mind with confusion because really,
all you can see is a dot but they say its
Art,
and
the sweet movements of muscles
betraying the direction of the wind
as sweat beads erupt like volcanoes
but the beauty remains surreal
so just
Dance.
As inspiration sits before you
luring you with her presence and
Waiting for you to do with her as you wish
but watch as she draws you in.
Because sometimes,
when you get close enough
to smell her breath in your lungs
or to taste her lips on your tongue.
Close enough
to hear her voice in your mind
or to feel her scent on your skin.
Yes, I mean close enough,
so that you can even hear the sudden rush
of tidal waves
sending signals to your brain;
A billion ideas.
Inspiration leaves you;
you'll never get to catch the rose petals
as they fly away with the wind.
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