Toxic Muse

When the words that leak forth are a poisoned froth
of malice and fear
a fragmented song
until you fear to ever sing again...

How long does she hold her grip?
How long till you sluice her taint from your heart,
excise her claws;
free your self,
retrieve your gifts from the slurry, the slag, the refuse heap
rinse them clean and repair them?

She is not you, and she is not your muse
She is nothing anymore
a dim and dank memory, a scar over the damage done.

Heal, singer.
Let it go, let her go and free your self.
Free your voice