I feel like I’m losing whatever power I had to fuss with words and put them into proper poems
And that worries me-
Not because I feel some deep need to do this-
I almost always find something,
But because, from what I could tell, they made you happy
I know just stating that seems profoundly presumptuous
But I know that spending time with you, watching you, hearing you, seeing you, reading what you write-
It all means a lot to me, since you are so good
I just want to have something that I do, that can bring you that same joy, somehow.
That’s what scares me about possibly losing this.
But I’m neurotic about things, from the start-
So expecting something to be doomed is how my brain works.
I can only hope that this isn’t a self-fulfilling prophecy, since you are what helps me to push on in this form.
Which is why I will, until I’ve wrung out every last drop.
You’re such a great muse, you don’t even know-
But if I can make these worth your eyes alone, that’ll be more than enough.
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