the natural order of things has disintegrated
long before this drought, I was once lush and tingling with thriving life. used to rinse my skeletal self from cunning stagnation until my bones of ivory revealed the truth in a stream of words gathering at my ankles
at that moment, the planet had stood still.
poetry is embedded in my bone marrow
but I think I rinsed my bones dry that afternoon back when all I wrote about was the blonde boy with eyes of an angel and the girl I was falling out of love with who had a smile that once could bring me down to my knees in utter awe.
both of them are gone now and my muse never came back looking the same.
I've been waiting for myself to return to my cracked bones. I realize it's simply futile but with a crown of thorns and decay calling my name, I wait accompanied by the skeletons in my closet.
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a/n: the title is 'should've taken my own advice' cos I've written a poem telling myself not to get caught up in a muse but obviously I didn't and now I am all messed up, I feel like my insides are all disorganized idk
