The inspiration comes not.
Where is it, eh?
Somewhere else, you say?
Well that just won’t do!
Boo fucking hoo!
Come here you little fuck — I wasn’t through with you.
How do you expect me to get anything done, when only Blue will do?
It’s a never-ending cycle, it sure is.
And that’s really all I’ve got for you.
The rest is mere chaos, centered on you.
The order of the universe — all I see is cerule.
I’m sorry I’m not inspiring
Or very profound.
I write this merely
Words on the page.
In beautiful Blue scrawl.
The Blue the only beauty
My poor eyes befall.
Just the one
Eye peering out;
That’s all I see
When I look at you.
Well it’s past time, she says,
It’s past nine — isn’t she clever?
But nothing else will do…
Everything is just fluff. Fodder. Filler.
Even if it is three-dee.
It loses steam, if there ever was;
Losing, losing, that’s all it ever does.
My dearest Torden, how I long for your curves.
Oh yes indeed, if I ever had the nerve.
This desperate desire,
Empty unfulfilled and inarticulate,
Can barely be said to be
A strange mix between
Primal lust and schoolgirl crush.
I am not there.
I am not anywhere.
I am merely here —
Staring into my own