To The Dark Lady
My dark-hearted muse keeps me twisted
With unfulfilled desire,
For she knows that I write better
As my threshold for pain climbs higher.
She callously frustrates my longing.
She’s laughing as she hears me curse,
Looking ahead to the end result:
My pain distilled into verse.
She smiles for she knows I can’t leave her;
She’s too much a part of my art.
She slides her knife into my psyche
Until words pour out of my heart.
She’s the bitch who rains torments on me,
Doing nothing to soften each blow.
She’s the sadist who makes me a poet.
Damn her, but I love her so.
With unfulfilled desire,
For she knows that I write better
As my threshold for pain climbs higher.
She callously frustrates my longing.
She’s laughing as she hears me curse,
Looking ahead to the end result:
My pain distilled into verse.
She smiles for she knows I can’t leave her;
She’s too much a part of my art.
She slides her knife into my psyche
Until words pour out of my heart.
She’s the bitch who rains torments on me,
Doing nothing to soften each blow.
She’s the sadist who makes me a poet.
Damn her, but I love her so.
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