(14/1/1989 / Solihull, Birmingham)

Waiting For My Muse

Stuck inside alone.
Thinking ‘bout what I could be writing,
If I had an idea.

Stuck inside my own head,
Praying for inspiration.
Shifting through half-baked ideas.

But want I’m really doing
Is waiting for my muse.
I haven’t met her yet,
And I don’t who she is,
But still I’m waiting for my muse.

I’m sure she’s out there,
Stroking her ginger hair,
Or playing with her blonde hair.
I’m just waiting for the day,
That she throws her big brown,
Or green or blue eyes my way,
And I will have found my muse.

When I met meet my muse,
I’m sure I’ll know it’s her.
I’m sure I’ll concoct some verse
About how her eyes met mine
And how her faced lighted up,
And how we feel in love,
And all the lovely things she does
That gets me writing.

Till then I stuck inside alone,
Thinking of what I could be writing,
But I know that I’m just waiting for my muse.


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