Episode Details

I am conflicted, constricted

Ostracized for my addictions…

‘A married muse— very nice.”

It would be a shame to waste such a beautiful day, but there was work to be done, and things approaching, things moving as they squally did around me, but today with more relax—I had taken a my first day off from the gym in weeks, and was feeling rejuvenated, but ready to hit the pavement

—my new workout equipment on its way, as not to say, there were other things I had been focused on working out, internal and otherwise—and I found it almost curious to continue to ponder on what one much sort of think as taboo, but for some reason, wasn't, I was safeguarded. For the first time in years, my muse, not chosen, however more bestowed upon me, was a married man—which meant, my falling in love with him was baseless, if unremarkably atoned, and temporary as it should have been, and yet, all the more plentiful. I still had added to my portfolio as I had with my other men in forms of songs, further words, and poems, though bemused as I was and finding it all the more appalling— it was all for the sake of the art, I needed none more than the facts I had been faced with—the fame— the soul that danced inside a handsome body, and of course— the thing it was that called to my own, a God in a sense of sorts, for in the years that had come I had learned from my love, I could draw infinite art—though what with it to do, I knew not.

Finally, it didn't matter— there was no chance in the world of the love to be born in the physical world, and for that I was safe and protected— to dream, and to fantasize at will, and unlike some others, I knew myself never to harm or wish to harm one other's well being— I would not dare to be such that marriage didn't matter; I was, in my heart and somewhere in my seeking soul, a good woman. Or at least—good enough to know better, and for now, no better was good, than to write, and to dream, sifting songs and sonnets in my oil soul as it was, a lover's fantasy; and a fantastical one at best.

To new adventures, with a younger man.

Much younger than I, however older than once thought, it was almost an honor had struck, another magician, and master of art.

Take it slow take it all in

On a long walk

Smell the roses,

Don't slip,

Don't choke

Don't talk about it

Hide your love

Piss them all off

Walk the dog

Slit your wrists

When the whole world

Is all him,

The man who hit you

And the justice system

Trusts him

And his light skin

The right color

In the trump era

Now that's a Cold War

son's coming up,

Time to run

411

The 555

Is done for

A parked car

With no gasoline at all

Just remember

I control the gangstalkers

The dumb blondes

The hot Caucasians

The dog walkers

And the ones wearing stars

For the counter curse

Here's a curve ball

Serve your punishment

For wanting it

What was it before?

Love

What is it now?

God

Mirrors at an angle

Can't see myself

So I'm finally invisible

Is it Psy or Sai

I'm depressed because I don't know how to publish anything and I can't stop writing;

I don't know what to do with anything I've written,

And I'm always,

Constantly stressed about money

The things I need,

And feel I should be working

As if I haven't written more than what some writers with notoriety and fame have or had written in their lifetimes

And now, to think, the fame and notoriety seem so small to me;

I really just want the money and to be able to go away