tHE PoET's LiTTLe BLacK BooK

tHE PoET's LiTTLe BLacK BooK

I carry around a little black book wherever I go
To help me remember, and forget; to feel, and be numb.
It comes well-stocked with pills and
   an emotional paintbrush.
And all the latest colors of deception. Or truth. Being
  the same.

Purgatory is a choice.
Between Dante and Michelangelo.
Fire and brimstone, perhaps, but still a choice.
Like this blank page that devours me.
Choice being difficult. 
Unwieldy.
And telling.

Only the muses’ absence could ever devour my soul.

But they are with me
And we are dancing
As life is rhythm
And beauty is light
And love, its purest form.

And words, well,
They exist to enlighten.

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