Inspiration emanates from you, my muse,
In plumes of ornate animosity,
Noxious fumes that, like a magic potion
Or poison, insinuate my senses
As I inhale out of curiosity.

In an attempt to break tradition, my muse,
Infuse me with apprehension,
Your own bitter words that, I’m sorry to say,
Could never flow as smoothly as my own
Seek my reluctant attention.

And your callous words (all fueled by your malice)
Are too cruel to be spoken,
I strive to smother my cries, but I never
Succeed. Can you hear me?
I wonder why God gave us these tokens,
Mouths and ears and eyes,
When some refuse to use them judiciously.

If you could peruse these words,
Would you still accuse me of an empty heart?
I’ve poured everything it contains, strengths and debilities,
Into this rhyme, so that it might become a piece of art;
My muse, your empty eyes skip over my underestimated abilities.
All I sought was some small amount of love, as I tried to placate your insistent bawl
(Sometimes I wonder why God created such treacherous emotions at all).