I would love to be your muse
but I just leave you bruised
You want to help mend my wound
by first swatting away my pessimistic thoughts.
Flybots that never die
but rather return revenge by stinging your creative fingers.
I hope the swollen mounds that are left behind can be mined
for fuel to use on your little tool, the pencil.
I’d rather that than while trying to fix my frayed edges
you find yourself slipping off ledges.
Deeper and deeper until you’re down with me.
With nothing but failure to breathe.
And nothing but retrospect to see.
We’d need something unattainable
and want nothing else except maybe the unspeakable