Only ghastly things
are my muse.
I can’t see beauty in pretty,
not the expected kind.
Pain is the ink I write with,
as I throw up the words
and cringe.
The great artists
had their affairs,
Lizzie, Claudel,
Meurent laid bare.
But I can’t
find myself
in this beauty,
through the eyes
of the male gaze,
seduction painted
as art,
luring women
into feeling
desired.
Instead,
I wait,
pull the tragic inside,
create shapes with clouds,
see birds floating
like boats in the ocean,
mandalas drawn with pebbles
on the sand,
cranes in the sunset,
textures on rocks.
Just to show them:
Look, I see it
in everyday objects.
But I don’t.
The truth is,
I see it in misery,
self-sabotage,
broken bones,
and heart.
Tangled wires,
dirty sheets,
and the unsettling hum
of a malfunctioning machine.
So, tell me,
will you be my muse?
