muse

sometimes i wake upin the middleof the nightand findpoetry splatteredall over my bed.

Become my muse. And let me paint you with my words...

Hallo, Pooh,_ said Rabbit.__allo, Rabbit,_ said Pooh dreamily.__id you make that song up?___ell, I sort of made it up,_ said Pooh. __t isn__ Brain,_ he went on humbly, __ecause You Know Why, Rabbit; but it comes to me sometimes.___h!_ said Rabbit, who never let things come to him, but always went and fetched them.

The life of a writer is directed by a mad impulsive muse, that can tell them to cancel all their storyline: a creative divergent devil.

Arts without a spiritual relative is like frying buns with water.

Sitting to think of what to write will only set your ass on fire, give you headache, twist your face to look stupid, instead, walk around with a blank mind and something from somewhere will fill it up.

Lovely thoughts came flying to meet me like birds. They weren't my thoughts. I couldn't think anything half so exquisite. They came from somewhere.

When there is silence, Give your voice. When there is darkness, Shine your light. When there is desperation, Offer hope.

Creativity is when a stupid clever soul gets up from bed and do amazing things that makes the world think he is wise.

Don't keep your Muse locked up in the closet. Set them free to dance across the page and what they create will be a masterpiece.

Deal resistance a death blow and make sweet love to your art all night long. Put on your fishnet thigh highs and your patent leather stilettos and your special occasion lingerie. Seduce the hell out of your own creative soul. It__ time for an epic lap dance. Dance for your paint and canvas, for fingers tripping across keyboard, for the open arms of motherhood, for the layers of flavor in the meals you create. Wind your hips down for the click of the shutter, for the 3 a.m. bathroom poem, for the late night lesson planning

Muses work all day long and then at night get together and dance...

In Poems of Love and Light: The Light of The Sun_Our Breath as One, the tenor seems to have changed slightly, as the progression of Love and lovers is, in many cases (if not all) quixotic, dependent upon mutual understanding, the conditions of the moment, the awareness of the future, as well as the mundane life, in which we all must exist, embracing real life, as is the natural state, which sentient individuals traverse _ illusion may help those in the __oment_, but does nothing for the long-term, except misdirect it.Poetry has always been a way to leave something for those who come after, a legacy of inspiration, methodology, spirit, love, emotion, historical sense and utility, depending upon the subject matter, intentions of the bard, and the situations, which frame the creation of that sense of experience, with which the Poet receives his Muse. Poems of Love and Light: In The Light of the Sun, Our Breath as One

A sacrifice is not about expecting God to break the bond you have with another person. You make the sacrifice on your own because God is more important than the bond.

For too many centuries women have been being muses to artists. I wanted to be the muse, I wanted to be the wife of the artist, but I was really trying to avoid the final issue _ that I had to do the job myself.

I'm not a concept. Too many guys think I'm a concept or I complete them or I'm going to 'make them alive'_but I'm just a fucked up girl who's looking for my own peace of mind. Don't assign me yours.

Forcing the muse to let thoughts flow; equals to pushing a child, into labor.

He always thought a muse should be sex on legs.