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It's Been Awhile, My Muse Was Idle

I have written over 4,000 poems and 1,000 songs and yet I am still searching for that perfect poem or song which eludes me.

The endless conflict of writing what is truly righteous.

The many faces of disappointed readers

The many faces of disappointed readers

My attempts to make right what I write.

I have been blessed and cursed with the ability to form words into cohesive and welcomed stories, poems and songs. One must first discover a concept and then bring it to conception which is a daunting task. All writers are granted a muse, a most annoying and tedious whisperer in one's ear, to feed its endless needs to be expressed through your thoughts. Thoughts which are then bled out in ink for very little return in value. Except for the sheer beauty of crafting words into a finished and very satisfying work.

My muse has a habit of vanishing far too often, perhaps to Tahiti or to join the silent but vigilant, stone heads on Easter Island. Which of course leaves me behind to build a memorial to his loss formed from all of my mental blocks. Without his sometimes creative input I find myself closing my eyes as I hover over a open dictionary, and placing my finger on one of the pages to point out a word, any word and then forcing myself to write a poem or a song about that word.

Sometimes this works extremely well, but far too often I get a topic like "vaginal" or "obsedian" and who wants to read 10 paragraphs on female anatomy or the texture of vocanic glass. They are both of course are very smooth but seriously?

At one time in my life while writing comedy I got lucky when I penned a rather colorful routine about: " An Argument Between a Penis and a Vagina Over Who Had The Most Headaches in Thier Sexual Lives.". An overeager manager who handled my gigs mailed a copy of it off to a very well known comic who ab-soul- lutely loved it to death and sent me his home phone number in case I ever needed some comedic advice.

That comic was the hilarious George Carlin. Of course I can't call him anymore because he stood on stage one night right before his demise and pointed to the heavens while commenting on his latest heart attack and said, "You didn't get me this time, God! ". Sadly his next health issue left him personally entertaining his maker who did get him after all. Talk about heavenly gigs. But I diverse.

I truly believe that all brilliant writes and inspirations are the direct result of the Gods of heavenly literature, skipping pebbles of thoughts across the brainwaves of a fortunate few. Which of course results in a rippling effect that brings them fame and fortune. But I was probably stoned when I wrote that so please don't quote me.

I don't write for money cause I don't really have any. If I did write for a living I would be that cliche known as a starving artist. But the only anorexic part of my body is my brain at times when I am seeking to write something worthy of the next Pullitzer prize.

I write to cope with the sheer insanity of world at large. There are so many ludicrous and unjust happenings to expound on. My pen is not a sword, but it can be quite cutting when it it scratches out my wrath across the pounded, ground up, remnants of some trees I never got to climb in my rants at the cruelty of mankind.

I have written songs whenever I fell in love and when I fell out of love. Nothing worthy of a Grammy of course, or I wouldn't be here now penning this somewhat convuluted article on a site called Hubpages. I would be frequenting airport hubs and touring my butt off while enjoying the glamour, the glitz and the babes.

My biggest problem with writing is that my blood is Type-O. which means all of my writing has type O's as well. Yet each day when I rise there comes a stirring in my soul to fill the blankness of my exisitence with some written words. Random thoughts pop into my head or some perfect line to a not yet written song, better known as a hook.

So I spend hours on my computer or strumming a guitar to satisfy the craving to be creative. I then post it whether it's a poem, song or article online where I am added to the ten million other writers, or the two billion guitar and vocalist performers and I vanish in the middle of a list that would stretch to Jupiter and back.

How does anyone get found on such a huge list? They must stand out in such a way that endless viewers and commenters and likers and streamers bless them with millions of hits on their various websites. How is that working out for all of you? I thought so.

I was born long after my time. I would have rather been a traveling minstrel going from village to village to share my songs, my wit and all that I had writ. But instead I am just another miniscule, unknown part of a massive conglomeration of wanna be's peddling their creations.I am but one grain in an hourglass of hopefuls, as my time is slowly running out.

Sure I get lots of offers from spammers and scammers all telling me they can make me famous for a fee. I can buy views and likes and streams for ridiculous amounts of money, but they aren't sincere or real, they are just electronically produced stats that simply make me look and feel good.

But If I recieve one comment that is kind and comforting from one reader or listener who simply liked my thoughts, that to me is priceless and that is why I write. If I touch just a few souls with my most compassionate topics or a song that moves them to love others or change what is bringing them down, then I have succeeded in my mission as an artist.You can't buy that kind of an award.I once wrote a poem about Cutting where dear souls hurt themseves for reasons known only to them. I recieved a wonderful comment on it from a girl who was a cutter and she said after reading my poem she had decided to stop cutting herself. The part that swayed her from hurting herself simply stated: "What are you going to tell your precious children, when they ask you why you have so many scars all over your arms and legs? Her quitting was just one of my missions.That was my Pullitzer.

Sometimes when I get depressed about the lack of recognition I have garnered, I contemplate creatng a large watertight, two-inch thick, aluminum time capsule into which I can put all of my songs and all of my wtitings. Then simply going out and burying them in a marked place with instructions to open them in 200 years, long after I am gone. Perhaps readers from the future might appreciate a glimpse of my mind from two centuries ago, if someone ever, even bothered to dig it up. Perhaps the ten second, attention span virus, that has inflicted far too many of today's perusers of what is written will have vanished by then.

Hell, I could wind up a post-humous superstar in the year 4022. "Hey, a man can dream can't he..." .

But in the mean time with a very hard lean toward the "mean" part of this time I currently occupy, I am left just one of millions of dreamers daring to publish the cream of my literal dreams and so I write on. It is not all hopeless. There have been many who were discovered online and went on to be famous and rich simply by banging on a keyboard or strumming on a guitar and singing something that they posted.

And so I write on and always strive to be right on .....Righteously.

If you've enjoyed these musings leave me a comment. "Comments are music to our peers". If not leave me a critique and I will address your issues in a detailed letter of reply which I will seal in that time capsule I mentioned. Then perhaps the curious side of your future generations will uncover what had long ago made you unhappy. Thanks to any and all of you for reading my article this far. You are deeply appreciated by me.




© 2022 Matthew Frederick Blowers III

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