Muse
I hate this wretched play
That holds me as its pray
It won’t reveal its face
Except the smallest trace
In thoughts of torturous regret
That settle in my head
I must stay beneath the surface
If I can hold my breath
Sometimes I can’t record a simple sentence
As surely it will sentence me to death
It renders me half sane
Half blinded by its light
And leaves me just the same
If I put up a fight
