Today I don’t want to write for you.

Words are misconstrued,

and I have no actions to give you.

Tongues get twisted,

and everything spills out backwards.

Inflections are mistaken,

one emotion muddled into the next.

Today I won’t write for you.

Decided, I won’t pick up the pen.

Your book remains shut.

Collecting cobwebs.

Inspiration passes.

You were always a fickle muse.

Today, I’ll write for me.

Seated before a new book,

the spine creaking in protest.

A new pen poised,

and ready to take flight

Today, I write for myself.

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