lucky number seven
people that yearn to be muses
mystify me.
do you have the strength to
know the deepest truths
of how you are perceived?
for speech may lie,
coat bitter feelings in a
light dusting of deceptive phrasing,
weave words into backhanded jibes,
but art will not lie.
i owe my art far more honesty
than i will ever owe another
living, breathing soul.
so, though i may not have
the skill to render your likeness
in oils or films,
those unchanging, unyielding
frames of pure emotion,
i know how to immortalise
the essence of you in my words.
for that, you would have to ruin me.
take over my entire being
with your words, actions, thoughts.
when i start confusing the voice
in my head with yours,
spotting your visage at every turn,
driven to the brink of insanity
by this passionate fondness,
only then will i let you be a part
of my most vulnerable.
i cannot promise you will like it.
for until it is done,
even i do not know what will spill.
my deepest misgivings,
our cherished confidences.
the version of you in my art
is born of the truest lens i possess.
tell me, after knowing what it takes
do you still want me to write about you?