Muse Of My Heart

pain between my ribs pushing and crushing and crunching and hurting pain that sears pain that festers there is a pain and something leaking out i cannot contain it it holds me it fuels me it binds me to heaven and earth to this universe that has destroyed me and birthed me again so many times i cannot contain my pain it leaks it leaks out and it will spread if i do not contain it if i do not let if hurt me from in between my ribs it separates in a way no other thing can it is all i can do to keep from flying into a million different pieces inspiring is demise and pain is not demise it is only the beginnings it is only the promise of pain to come and demise to be coveted as a finish line from one cup of coffee to the next from one hole to be filled to the next it is a rasping and a coughing pain it is a clawing and a chaffing pain it is a twisting and a pain that i selfishly divulge to myself and myself alone i cannot see it i cannot nor can i hear it but i can taste it in my mouth wet

I have this huge expectation for the world, an expectation that has failed so many times. So why is it still there. I don't know. I can't have it every way. I never could. Who was I kidding. I used to be the happiest person I knew. Nothing can phase me and I can survive anything. There is always worse. So why, if I know this have I been breaking down every other day? I could put a label on it...But non of my usual tendencies fit. I am either a malcontent or... something is even more askew than I know how to fix. I used to fit. I want to fit again. Why can't I just fit where, when and how I want to? I have freedom. What more could I ask for? I have happiness. What more could I ask for? Why does it not show that I am more appreciative than ever?  I give and the world gives back. The universe always reciprocates. I try to reciprocate. I have nothing to offer

...and let me dance among the stars ...all I long for...with Jupiter and Mars... Imposible restlessness has never been defined a sickness nor a disease. Some feel both. A push and a pull. The malnutrition of never having done the tango under the stars to flashy music, never having sped down a glittering speedway in a white leather interiorized Ford GT blasting Chopin nor ever having hiked the ways of shaggy haired goats in the Swiss Alps with only the sound of the wooden bells on their necks for music pales in comparison to the restlessness I can sometimes feel in my chest, gut and loins... Though I have done the tango under the star, I have ridden in a Ford GT and I have seen a goat before, I still throb at the need to move. The wind bows, and as cliche as it is ( Of course I believe cliche never to bound a phrase to hell, for what makes a phrase a platitude if not the overuse) I feel it pulling at my wings.  'walking becomes boring when one has learned how to fly' I can ha