The Muses weep.
No one honors them with dance or song.
The Muses weaken.
Man’s only concern is War. Greed, the poison.
Eternal, the Muses sleep.
Creativity, Art, Expression lost.
Recovered from the past and dabbling in the present
[Embarassing] Poetry from the past
Poetry is not my forte, and I find most poetry to be sad or reflective of a teenage depressive state, but I have decided to share my rather crappy and depressive poetry in order to show my progression from sad and weird teen angst to sad and decent adult angst.