~Esther Mitchell, 2012~
I’ve lost my inspiration,
It’s crept away to hide;
My Muse has sought seclusion,
Since discovering how others lied.
They told me I could make it,
Success, they said, was on my side;
All I had to do was want it,
It would be mine, if I only tried.
But no one ever mentioned heartache,
Or said a word about the pain;
There was no mention of endless hoops and circles,
Looping on themselves again and again.
With each crumbled hope,
And every crushed dream,
I feel the tightening of the rope,
And hovering failure drags forth a tortured scream.
For, with my Muse shrouded in silence,
And my present painted so bleak,
My confidence turns to dust and self-violence,
My art unable to find voice enough to speak.