i wrote a new poem, and i am kind of upset by it. a month or so ago, i thought that i had a muse; rather, it seems that i have found some sort of unholy poetic succubus. poems about arnold stop being about arnold, but become about her, and i don't want them to, but they do. my own words betray me. his words become hers, the lines that i wake up thinking after i dream of him coming home are replaced into her lips.
but at least i am writing.
i have this constant fear that someday a friend will describe me as a 'former poet.' i would rather write poems about her that upset me than not be able to write anymore, again. in the end, we are our art.