To ponder effortlessly an object, without reservation or fear, is a dangerous thing. What begins as a muse can quickly evolve into an obsession. The muse no longer belongs to you – you belong to the muse.
She sat at the edge of the bed, naked, waiting. Behind the canvas he rocked back and forth with nothing to show for it on the field of white in front of him. Before she had inspired him to greatness and now as she sat there aged and weary there was nothing.
A muse. It’s a funny word, or to people who don’t write a lot or don’t think a lot, or even draw a lot. Muse. Hm… Muse is what happens when I think of my boyfriend, I muse about him, and what it will be like the next time I am with him, and what we will talk about. I muse about how much we will kiss, and about how much closer we will get.
Her muse was a dusty old book on the uppermost shelf. A passing view into a a dimly lit room in a thirteenth story apartment at one o’clock in the morning. The quiet old man sitting alone in the corner of the coffee shop with a cardboard box at his feet. The stumbling blonde leaving the bar with a broken high heel and a run in her stockings.
her smile. the way it lit up a room
a cold, damp room with no other light
a small room
not much of a room at all
but she lit it up
pretty smile and shy eyes
and that was enough for me
Muse? Isn’t it similar to amuse? I need to brush up on my vocabulary root words lol. The last time I did this was waaay back. I can only think of the root word “a” for “not” or something like that. I should review again once school starts.
Your name is a nickname for a name that means “memory” in the old language, where my name means that I’m not supposed to fall over my own feet. Your name is a name that makes me wonder, because there was a time, not so long ago – if a year isn’t long – when someone like you, some memory, like you, was my muse.
And there were two of them, then – a dark and a light side to chaos, singing words to me that only I could hear…and they’re silent now, though I wonder if the light sent you to free me from the dark.
He looked out the window, musing about all the things he had lost. Life had gone by quicker, and slower, than he expected. He took a final breath as the windows shattered. Ten thousand gallons of pressurized seawater slammed into the bridge control room.
She was my muse. My only inspiration. The only bad thing is that she didn’t know. And it hurts.
She walked away without much of a goodbye. She left me. Forever.
muse muse muse i think my muse includes this one thing or another belonging to the world and its mother but maybe its all in my head, an imagination you hear what i said cause i go like fire and burn it down never turn back when i hear a sound
It’s nice that people have a muse to inspire them to creative endeavors. But I want to be my own muse! I want to energize myself creatively and inspire fun and amazing writing and artwork. That’s why I have a silly creativity crown that I put on when I am feeling stuck — it has fake gemstones, long ribbons, and is very silly. And it works every single time!
Staring at a hushed band of black, he was startled to realize he had been blindfolded. As he brought his hands to eyes to confirm, a soft voice said “Don’t”. He felt as if he could hear her smile. She took his hand and guided it to her face, to tell him even she had blind folded herself. She let out a playful yet nervous laugh, as urged him out of bed and onto the floor. And it began. In silence of their breathing, their hands searched each other, finger meeting finger, palm meeting palm… They began to discover each other, to feel the presence of the other, while the other obliged to play the muse. It all felt like the pause before a perfect kiss, like lips trying to find each other, their hands felt the existence of the other person, appreciating everything about them. As his hands found her face, felt what he knew knew to be the face he loved, he felt her lips, and traced her body to the curve of her neck. Swiftly he pulled her closer, hands caught in her hair, he kissed her once before they undressed.
he had abundant dense tight curled black hair down to his belt loops, he liked red hot chili peppers and made straight clothes look wild. He made her wild, she seduced him in a mens bar, where he probably judged her the lesser of evils that beset him, took him home and had sex in the elevator of her apartment block, pressing third and ground and second and anything that came to hand. Her gay boyfriends said after thirty teenagers start to look tacky, but it was jealousy talking. He was her Medici prince, a beautiful thing an inspiration for a while. He told her stories of a mysterious and improbable childhood and she wrote one detail into a story, a story stolen mainly from someone else. There is something amoral and uncomfortable about how writers collect their material
He had a muse. It was his cat, “Mews,” which she often said. Her whimsical antics amused him no end and, in the poetry of her motions, he found a garden of ideas. He could see the world in her attempts to amuse him.
hear the muse? don’t abuse, just light the fuse and peruse the skills you have
abused by the muse? No one sues when they’re used by the muse.
abused or amused, you have to love the muse … don’t you?
She was the most beautiful killer he had ever see. Her full lips had a constant quirk to it, as she sliced the neck of her victims. Her dress was always red to hide the splatter of her killings, and to also embrace the color of there blood. A priestess of her art.
i dont think ive ever had a muse. Nope, deffiniaetly not. I wonder if ive ever been someone elses muse. that would be nice, so im going to choose to believe that i have been someone elses muse, and he was just too shy to tell me. Yep, sounds good to me.
My friend Ed writes about his muses all the time. He makes songs for them. I guess I write for mine, but I call them crushes. Usually, I’m thinking of someone when I begin writing something. Usually I lose them along the way. Most always, I want them to see what I’ve written.
He’d never felt so fake in his life. This inspiration block would be the death of him, or worse – his career. Just once he wanted to say “Jesus, take the keyboard,” but he knew that the story would suck, just like the one in front of him that he knew in his heart we would never finish.
I like the sound of jazz in the morning to get my started. I likeI the sound of the birds in the trees as i walk out the door to go on my daily day I feel blessed to be alive to try to get it right as every day is a day to get it
A muse is a fickle thing, there one minute and gone the next. She (for surely only women can be fickle, no?) cares not for feeling or for convenience. She follows her whims, but expects you to immortalize her in your verse.
Does this happen to you? Do the walls crumble at your breath? Do ants cross the street? Does that happen to you? Do broken necklaces come in the post? Does that happen
to you? Does it?
muse, muse is a band, a great band. Its name comes from an ancient Greek diety. Muses lived in forests, and they were in charge of the arts. Not the crafts. Just arts. Calypso was the muse of music. That’s nice. That art is a woman. No, that’s not nice. It’s just normal.
My muse is love and lack thereof. I am motivated by my emotions and the strongest is the capacity to care for someone more than yourself.
I have created perhaps the best pieces of art out of despair, and yet I have performed my absolute best when I was in love with said man.
My muse it something I can not control, and therefore my art is too out of my control.
He was my muse.
The way his back curved ever so slightly when he was interested.
The way his smile lit up the room, but no one seemed to notice except for me.
He was grace; in every essence I could fathom.
The way his fingers drummed on the table the moment he felt uncomfortable.
But only I knew.
For unfortunate circumstance had bound him to my best friend. And I had to watch while their hearts twisted around each other lovingly, while I sat in the background.
It was hard to imagine being without her; she was the constant inspiration for my writing and the one I always bounced ideas off of. Her absence filled a deep hole in my life and it hit me harder than I thought it would when I realized she would be gone forever. Well, maybe not forever– but two months is a long time. I wasn’t sure I would survive them.
only if –
I have often thought of a muse as a person
as beauty
as fictitious and as a desire to be
However –
I have found that my
true and beautiful muse
is me
The muse is with me, today. I can feel her flowing through me like wine through an uninhibited co-ed. She is there and I am free. I am ready to write my greatest of greats. But then, there is also Twitter to distract me. See you later, muse.
I don’t have any right now, that’s why I’m here. usually when I have no muse I’ll look at the word and go HEY! I COULD WRITE THIS! OMG! and then I just start writing. and writing. and writing. here and other places. oneword.com is where I go when I have writers block and it saves me every time.
I mused about the next scene in the chapter. What exactly would those characters say? Fanfiction writing is hard, since working with characters i have no idea what they’re really like is hard. DC comics have so many twists and turns, and I”m not the creator. OH well. Fanfiction writing is fun. And my editor angel, she’s the one who really handles all the character stuff.
She smiled, pen in hand, as she started to sketch her comic. No more would Damien think I was idiotic, she though. He had become her muse, all their relationship struggles would be out in the open for everyone to see. He would be sorry.
My muse had held his microphone close to his lips. I was sorrounded by other people who were being completely overtaken by his music. Like a greek god. He sang right into my heart and soul, and I know I wasn’t the only one who felt it at the time. It was a shame, that the same night of our show, when he left, he was killed in a terrible car accident.
the three of them sit around a harp in my dreams, singing to me all night long. in the morning, will i remember their song? they have been there as long as i can remember, but i can never sing back to them when i awaken. i feel they want to fill me up, float me away with them into their mystical world of creating sound and story, nothing more…but gravity keeps me here on earth.
She stared blankly at him, unknowning that she was the canvas for the designer’s new show. The painter, Van Gogh, the eccentric, Andy Warhol. Who were their muses? Whose muse are you?
To ponder effortlessly an object, without reservation or fear, is a dangerous thing. What begins as a muse can quickly evolve into an obsession. The muse no longer belongs to you – you belong to the muse.
She sat at the edge of the bed, naked, waiting. Behind the canvas he rocked back and forth with nothing to show for it on the field of white in front of him. Before she had inspired him to greatness and now as she sat there aged and weary there was nothing.
A muse. It’s a funny word, or to people who don’t write a lot or don’t think a lot, or even draw a lot. Muse. Hm… Muse is what happens when I think of my boyfriend, I muse about him, and what it will be like the next time I am with him, and what we will talk about. I muse about how much we will kiss, and about how much closer we will get.
Her muse was a dusty old book on the uppermost shelf. A passing view into a a dimly lit room in a thirteenth story apartment at one o’clock in the morning. The quiet old man sitting alone in the corner of the coffee shop with a cardboard box at his feet. The stumbling blonde leaving the bar with a broken high heel and a run in her stockings.
her smile. the way it lit up a room
a cold, damp room with no other light
a small room
not much of a room at all
but she lit it up
pretty smile and shy eyes
and that was enough for me
muse
Muse? Isn’t it similar to amuse? I need to brush up on my vocabulary root words lol. The last time I did this was waaay back. I can only think of the root word “a” for “not” or something like that. I should review again once school starts.
Your name is a nickname for a name that means “memory” in the old language, where my name means that I’m not supposed to fall over my own feet. Your name is a name that makes me wonder, because there was a time, not so long ago – if a year isn’t long – when someone like you, some memory, like you, was my muse.
And there were two of them, then – a dark and a light side to chaos, singing words to me that only I could hear…and they’re silent now, though I wonder if the light sent you to free me from the dark.
He looked out the window, musing about all the things he had lost. Life had gone by quicker, and slower, than he expected. He took a final breath as the windows shattered. Ten thousand gallons of pressurized seawater slammed into the bridge control room.
He was my muse. My only inspiration. The only bad thing was that he didn’t know.
All was over now. He walked away without much of a goodbye. He left me. Forever.
And I was here, alone. Forever.
She was my muse. My only inspiration. The only bad thing is that she didn’t know. And it hurts.
She walked away without much of a goodbye. She left me. Forever.
muse muse muse i think my muse includes this one thing or another belonging to the world and its mother but maybe its all in my head, an imagination you hear what i said cause i go like fire and burn it down never turn back when i hear a sound
It’s nice that people have a muse to inspire them to creative endeavors. But I want to be my own muse! I want to energize myself creatively and inspire fun and amazing writing and artwork. That’s why I have a silly creativity crown that I put on when I am feeling stuck — it has fake gemstones, long ribbons, and is very silly. And it works every single time!
Staring at a hushed band of black, he was startled to realize he had been blindfolded. As he brought his hands to eyes to confirm, a soft voice said “Don’t”. He felt as if he could hear her smile. She took his hand and guided it to her face, to tell him even she had blind folded herself. She let out a playful yet nervous laugh, as urged him out of bed and onto the floor. And it began. In silence of their breathing, their hands searched each other, finger meeting finger, palm meeting palm… They began to discover each other, to feel the presence of the other, while the other obliged to play the muse. It all felt like the pause before a perfect kiss, like lips trying to find each other, their hands felt the existence of the other person, appreciating everything about them. As his hands found her face, felt what he knew knew to be the face he loved, he felt her lips, and traced her body to the curve of her neck. Swiftly he pulled her closer, hands caught in her hair, he kissed her once before they undressed.
he had abundant dense tight curled black hair down to his belt loops, he liked red hot chili peppers and made straight clothes look wild. He made her wild, she seduced him in a mens bar, where he probably judged her the lesser of evils that beset him, took him home and had sex in the elevator of her apartment block, pressing third and ground and second and anything that came to hand. Her gay boyfriends said after thirty teenagers start to look tacky, but it was jealousy talking. He was her Medici prince, a beautiful thing an inspiration for a while. He told her stories of a mysterious and improbable childhood and she wrote one detail into a story, a story stolen mainly from someone else. There is something amoral and uncomfortable about how writers collect their material
He had a muse. It was his cat, “Mews,” which she often said. Her whimsical antics amused him no end and, in the poetry of her motions, he found a garden of ideas. He could see the world in her attempts to amuse him.
hear the muse? don’t abuse, just light the fuse and peruse the skills you have
abused by the muse? No one sues when they’re used by the muse.
abused or amused, you have to love the muse … don’t you?
She was the most beautiful killer he had ever see. Her full lips had a constant quirk to it, as she sliced the neck of her victims. Her dress was always red to hide the splatter of her killings, and to also embrace the color of there blood. A priestess of her art.
i dont think ive ever had a muse. Nope, deffiniaetly not. I wonder if ive ever been someone elses muse. that would be nice, so im going to choose to believe that i have been someone elses muse, and he was just too shy to tell me. Yep, sounds good to me.
My friend Ed writes about his muses all the time. He makes songs for them. I guess I write for mine, but I call them crushes. Usually, I’m thinking of someone when I begin writing something. Usually I lose them along the way. Most always, I want them to see what I’ve written.
He’d never felt so fake in his life. This inspiration block would be the death of him, or worse – his career. Just once he wanted to say “Jesus, take the keyboard,” but he knew that the story would suck, just like the one in front of him that he knew in his heart we would never finish.
Muse, hmm. Dictionary.com really quick. Inspiration; that’s more of my language. Inspiration heels my soul. That’s all.
I like the sound of jazz in the morning to get my started. I likeI the sound of the birds in the trees as i walk out the door to go on my daily day I feel blessed to be alive to try to get it right as every day is a day to get it
A muse is a fickle thing, there one minute and gone the next. She (for surely only women can be fickle, no?) cares not for feeling or for convenience. She follows her whims, but expects you to immortalize her in your verse.
Does this happen to you? Do the walls crumble at your breath? Do ants cross the street? Does that happen to you? Do broken necklaces come in the post? Does that happen
to you? Does it?
muse, muse is a band, a great band. Its name comes from an ancient Greek diety. Muses lived in forests, and they were in charge of the arts. Not the crafts. Just arts. Calypso was the muse of music. That’s nice. That art is a woman. No, that’s not nice. It’s just normal.
My muse is love and lack thereof. I am motivated by my emotions and the strongest is the capacity to care for someone more than yourself.
I have created perhaps the best pieces of art out of despair, and yet I have performed my absolute best when I was in love with said man.
My muse it something I can not control, and therefore my art is too out of my control.
I look, and stare.
The thoughts run in circles,
The concept not quite sticking.
My stare lasts a bit longer,
until finally…
It clicks.
He was my muse.
The way his back curved ever so slightly when he was interested.
The way his smile lit up the room, but no one seemed to notice except for me.
He was grace; in every essence I could fathom.
The way his fingers drummed on the table the moment he felt uncomfortable.
But only I knew.
For unfortunate circumstance had bound him to my best friend. And I had to watch while their hearts twisted around each other lovingly, while I sat in the background.
It was hard to imagine being without her; she was the constant inspiration for my writing and the one I always bounced ideas off of. Her absence filled a deep hole in my life and it hit me harder than I thought it would when I realized she would be gone forever. Well, maybe not forever– but two months is a long time. I wasn’t sure I would survive them.
the artist’s condom.
My muse wrote “kick me” on my back with a lime green Sharpie while I was sleeping. She plays dirty.
only if –
I have often thought of a muse as a person
as beauty
as fictitious and as a desire to be
However –
I have found that my
true and beautiful muse
is me
The band
My wife
My kids
Inspiration
Getting started
uncorking writers block
musical
thinking
fuse
Amuse
amusement
The muse is with me, today. I can feel her flowing through me like wine through an uninhibited co-ed. She is there and I am free. I am ready to write my greatest of greats. But then, there is also Twitter to distract me. See you later, muse.
I don’t have any right now, that’s why I’m here. usually when I have no muse I’ll look at the word and go HEY! I COULD WRITE THIS! OMG! and then I just start writing. and writing. and writing. here and other places. oneword.com is where I go when I have writers block and it saves me every time.
I mused about the next scene in the chapter. What exactly would those characters say? Fanfiction writing is hard, since working with characters i have no idea what they’re really like is hard. DC comics have so many twists and turns, and I”m not the creator. OH well. Fanfiction writing is fun. And my editor angel, she’s the one who really handles all the character stuff.
She smiled, pen in hand, as she started to sketch her comic. No more would Damien think I was idiotic, she though. He had become her muse, all their relationship struggles would be out in the open for everyone to see. He would be sorry.
My muse had held his microphone close to his lips. I was sorrounded by other people who were being completely overtaken by his music. Like a greek god. He sang right into my heart and soul, and I know I wasn’t the only one who felt it at the time. It was a shame, that the same night of our show, when he left, he was killed in a terrible car accident.
the three of them sit around a harp in my dreams, singing to me all night long. in the morning, will i remember their song? they have been there as long as i can remember, but i can never sing back to them when i awaken. i feel they want to fill me up, float me away with them into their mystical world of creating sound and story, nothing more…but gravity keeps me here on earth.
She stared blankly at him, unknowning that she was the canvas for the designer’s new show. The painter, Van Gogh, the eccentric, Andy Warhol. Who were their muses? Whose muse are you?