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How great is the muse that makes one write. Every writer talks about it and waits every night. Alas! It comes to people who write a schedule and forgets about the ones who are always waiting. I lost patience and started writing on my own. To my surprise she arrived.
By henshinger URL on 07.30.2011
It’s been 69 days since I’ve heard from you. My muse has become extinct.
By Hannah URL on 07.30.2011
muse is as fleeting as a butterfly
as charming as a robin’s song
and previous as the clearest diamond
to writers, at least
and artists, and musicians
any artisan looking to create work they can be proud of
to them, muse is what they call inspiration
muse starts and ends with the desire to create art.
By krsramblr URL on 07.30.2011
Musing over her possible capture, Patti-belle shook her head and smiled. “Y’all ’bout t’ wish you never laid eyes on me.” she drawled, spinning her poisoned blade in one hand, before burying it in her target’s heart.
By Nagi Reich URL on 07.30.2011
“I don’t feel like writing anymore”, he got up from his study table “..so much noise, all this cacophony..ahhh it’s unbearable”…
He walked over to the telephone and dialed a number. A smooth voice was heard from the other end — Hiii.. this is Jane, off to shopping. Leave a message after this beep. BEEP
“Hi Jane! Cerji here… I am unable to think with these disturbances around me. I want peace to rediscover my poetic muse. I may leave for Himalyas or maybe we should not be together anymore….”
He placed the receiver down and there was a smile of satisfaction on his face.
By Tyroceur URL on 07.30.2011
Where, oh where are you, my muse? People often speak of their muses as if they are a real person. Typically, Muse is a she. Muse is a she who teases their minds, tickles their creativity, but eludes them when they look to her for inspiration the most. She eludes me all the time.
By oxy URL on 07.30.2011
His smile. His smile is just so inspiring in a way that makes me want to grab a page and write all about it. That’s weird isn’t it? But its almost like his eyes are telling me a story when he smiles. Thats my muse.
By nicola on 07.30.2011
Like a feather drowning in a dream, like a choked motorcycle, like beats from the tired skin of an old drum, like damp firewood under a match, my voice rises to call you and doesn’t reach…
By Harvinder URL on 07.30.2011
My muse, my inner creator. I hope it doesn’t fade, as I feel I am. I hope as I become more and more an adult, my mysticism and gullibility don’t completely get squished by my experience and logic. The mixture is what makes me, human right?
By meximan282 URL on 07.30.2011
it is a band that i dont like at all. it has an old man as the lead singer, and he sings songs. hesung that song on twilight. yeh. it was pretty cool. yuuuuuuuuuup. yup.yup.yup. neverrrr
By diana on 07.30.2011
She would be perfect. Not in that goes-to-church, loves-her-daddy kind of way. Not at all. But the way she looked – as in looked at everything; the way she carried – as in herself; and just the way she was. She was the perfect muse.
By sheirin URL on 07.30.2011
I want to be his muse. To inspire him. To remind him of all things beautiful and creative and deep. I want him to take photos of me as I smoke while strumming a guitar naked on his bed and be pale, skinny and tattooed. But that will never happen. I don’t even know who I refer to when I say ‘him’ and I am not the type of person to strum guitars naked on peoples beds. I’m in no way artistic or bohemian or any of the things those images inspire.
By prolli on 07.30.2011
muse is a band or a greek mythological figure, actually, it was many mythological figures attributed to the Greek God Apollo, Muses often acted in thinks such as music or philosophy, and were designed to inspire humans to greater heights.
By Huehuehue on 07.30.2011
something that fashion designers use to inspire them
a really good band
comes from the Greek language
By Cassie on 07.30.2011
she’s a muse:
floaty hairs with stars in them,
a sunny smile.
night and day in a girl.
sweet, yes, but the shadows surroud her,
like a black veil of mistery
to catch her is my dream
By ren URL on 07.30.2011
When Danny woke up, instantly he felt inspired to become an artist. Sure, he loved to write but when you wake from a dream like that, you must paint.
Pretty…you are beautiful, thanks for your visit last light.
By vanhaydu URL on 07.30.2011
I muse. The muse finds me. I ignore the muse. The muse waits. Lurking. Hoping. Being there. Just waiting. I am part of the muse. The muse is part of me. She flows through me. She is not mine. She is universal and I am part of her flow. As we all are. She flows everywhere
The muse sits quietly in the sun. Stroking the sunbeams, awakening magic. And I await her annoinment. Await her presence. No need to wait. She is htere.
By LouiseG URL on 07.30.2011
Muse is simply about beauty, anything that leaves a trail down your memory lane.
By xhoxho URL on 07.30.2011
Like twinkling glittering sunbeams descending through the ceiling filters, falling on the dew-laden leaves of the garden, and glittering again in my eyes, I watch you through the dusty kitchen window, and attempt to recreate your brilliance.
By mattlock URL on 07.30.2011
it’s not just one thing which went the way of topsy turvy it was a larger call
the cat heard it too, she winked and walked the other way, leaving me to face the music
By judigoldberg URL on 07.30.2011
it goes from “amuse” to “muse.” Truly one letter can change a lot, but only if one looks carefully. Maybe I had been deceived and doubted that the word was different; nonetheless, with one letter missing, it is more difficult.
By MJ on 07.30.2011
muses are like mooses but they are not. Because mooses are not muses and are brown. I think muses would be pink, but you never know. I mean, my muse might be pink, but yours could be brown, but then would it be a moose? I’m not sure. Whatever. Muses are not mooses. Usually.
By Rachel K on 07.30.2011
someone who titillates you, sparks your sexual and creative desires. you want them, and they are willing to have you, but they keep themselves at arm’s length, so that your desire grows stronger, and so your willingness to create does so, as well. Someone who makes you scream with anger when they betray you, because you love them so much, they are your everything, without them your life seems impossible.
By Julian on 07.30.2011
“Muse?” I said. “You call her muse?”
“Yeah.” It sounded degrading. I pictured them cuddled on the couch and her legs bare and flailing around as he squeezed her thighs. His muse and he wasn’t too afraid to let her know.
By Dan on 07.30.2011
By Shanice on 07.30.2011
My muse is definitely Arizona Robbins…and her “Super Magic Smile” and those dimples! She is ah-maze-ing!!!! And hot for a Peds surgeon!!
By Shanice R URL on 07.30.2011
He walked slowly through the alley, around him time seemed to stand still. Her face alight with anger, sparked something deep in his mind. Her beauty was overwhelming, her body arcing into blessed effigies of glorious death. A smile danced across his lips as he watched her tear through the thugs like paper. His maker, his mistress, his muse of destruction.
By heather URL on 07.30.2011
“My artistic muse?” she asked staring blankly onto the canvas. Her art teacher gave her a stern nod. She lifted a shaky brush dripping with bright blue paint. “I’m not sure…” then she thought. She thought about nature, about friends, about peace and happiness, and about the sky. She peeked out the window and into the clear blue sky and smiled, and began with even fluid brushstrokes.
By Serena on 07.30.2011
I always wanted to be someone’s muse. To be someone’s inspiration, to be someone’s motivation. I yearn to feel special, to feel loved, to feel like a princess.
By eraserewind_ URL on 07.30.2011
This was yesterday’s word too. Obviously I’m stuck in the past. Ugh I need to move on, and start again. I can’t change anything but my present, so why bother with anything else?
By Laurie URL on 07.30.2011
Random people. Nothing acts as good as random things, for a muse. You want detail.
By suriti on 07.30.2011
My muse died in tragic circumstances and I lost the ability to be creative.
Years went by and each month my frustration grew. Had I completely failed as a writer.
Where was my talent? Was it buried in some pit of depression or simply locked away in a cupboard called fear?
Like shifting sands I could not find the way out.
By david lloyd on 07.30.2011
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.