What is an artist without a muse?
It rests like a church without any pews.
Like the words of a poet that never were spoken,
Like love in a heart that’s yet to be broken.
I am sure of myself; I know that to be true;
But there’s a riddle in my soul, to which I have no clue.
I’ve simplified philosophies and identified psychologies;
I understand the mass of men as I’ve lived the life of most of them.
I spent my youth a changeling—never once the same thing;
Not because of an interesting that is fleeting,
But rather, a subconscious method of understanding:
A poet, prophet, scientist and teacher,
Student, lover, drunkard and preacher,
Hero, pacifist, failure and warrior,
Jester, leader, guardian and lawyer.
Sinner, hero, gambler and performer—
I learned through experience as a transformer.
One man in the morning, and another man at night;
I played the role of a thousand men to learn of wrong and right.
For wisdom does not stem from speculation,
Nor is learned just by contemplation.
It cannot be taught through consultation,
Nor can it be found inside conversation;
But rather, it comes with a type of relation;
And also with time, and much observation.
I made it an art, and almost a trade, to never reveal my ace of spades.
It’s true, but a shame, that life really is a game
And if you don’t play your cards, then who’s left to blame?
And there’s royal flush that’s bursting at the seems,
But I have yet to find my queen:
A woman whose spirit holds an unmatched veneration;
A woman that I cannot find in this generation.
It has left me with wonder and left me asunder;
For life without love, is simply a blunder.