I write.

But I have never thought of stories as my own.

They belong outside of me.

Yet they are within me.

And the only way to rectify this terrible misalignment.

Is to write.

I do not create the stories as I go.

They are simply born whole.

In my head.

Yet the pictures and words

Are not all there

For me to see at once.

I must turn each page

With agonizing determination

To free the untold stories.

To make them heard.

But something of late stops my hand.

 

Something so great, the Muse cannot compensate.

 

I'm writing to a tune a new,

 

I am writing, ever more,

In love,

With you.

The words pour out a voice, unsure,

Young, new, wild yet pure,

The words feel different as always,

Yet strangely mine,

Somehow I know all will be right this time,

While the pages of future stories remain a mystery,

There is one tale laid out I can clearly see,

And that my dearest love,

Is the story of you and me,

And nothing brings me greater joy,

Than seeing our story come to be.

And so when I write,

It is still because the Muse keeps me up long into the night,

Yet the words I write now,

Are greater than those I wrote in strife,
For the words I write now,

Are written, holding in my heart, the love of my life