The Lack of a Muse

I find once again that my muse has escaped me. Writing words merely to write them and feel that I, yes I am profound! Can’t you see that, possible friends? Can’t you grasp that, potential lovers? Grasping chocolate hair at the roots, I tear and tear in my perpetual frustration. Oh where has my insanity gone? My lovely noose that drove me to pen such eloquence? My straight jacket whispered words that echoed of depth and comprehension well beyond my years. Am I so inept that I cannot write without the presence of tragedy, which I have never lacked before? Smiling, truly, for once in a decade, but at what price? Come back to me, my soul, my passion. Come back to me, my wounded psyche. Come back to me, insanity.