She

She does not have a word for most of what frightens her. 
She is afraid of the late night city revving it's fuel injected muscles
She is afraid of the load echoing surprises of the great outside unknown
she is afraid of being left on the outside. 
She is afraid to be alone
She can not see so well. 
At night she wants to curl up next to the ones she loves
she is afraid of the ghosts  that haunt her past buildings and of the meetings yet to happen. 
She is afraid of the birds that hop slowly between the tires of the cars of the people grocery shopping
It makes her uncomfortable and is she is afraid to let people get to close

Fire flies

I feel like all day like I'm catching creative fire flies.  At the end of day I get to relax,  stop chasing them,  and watch all the beautiful ideas I'll never have time to bring to life flash in front of my eyes until I fall asleep.  Lol..  As I write this :-D

The creative muse.

Her face and name is always in the shadows of the individual interactions that cross my path. 

The thrill of the beauty in the softness of Shadows that is her appeal. 

She flirts and tempts me most during the night hours where she can comfortably expose more of herself. 

Like a young teen who has just discovered their first sleepless dial up nights wide awake fervently jacking it.

Wandering into class in an ecstatic foggy haze where even your breath seams to buzz with the feeling of being too alive. 

In those Ohh too short of nights might have been when I first felt her power.
Her ability to leave you feeling so empty and spent. 

The uncertainty that she will make an appearance next time I need her makes me feel like a desperate jealous lover that can't get enough of it.
The perfect website that you had spent all night desperately hoping existed, 
only to see the early morning light coloring the polluted morning clouds brilliantly. 
The birds sounding their alarm that daylight was coming and the muse had to return where no one could see her.

Kiln thoughts

Smashing knuckles against the sharp gritty walls of the tomb as the chisel misses it's mark and slides wide.  The weight of the mallet only stops when the knuckles come to a dragging stop on the shattered rocky surface. 
My muse of misery that is apart of so much of my waking hour thoughts.  She grows stronger as I grow weaker.  I'm a slave to the miracles of beauty that she creates. 
She is mocking,  cold,  and terribly cutting.  There is no choice of anything better.  Addicted to creating at all costs,  regardless of the cost. 
Although related, I believe that the the muse is not you. 
There can be long periods of complete silence from the muse and regardless of how I try to tempt her,  I only find that I know nothing about her.
Maybe it's her cruel unpredictable nature that is so appealing.  The thrill of the unknown is intoxicating