Muse and Accompaniment (Geist)

The entirety of the poem Muse with music inspired by it at the end in bass guitar and piano.

Enjoy.

Word(s) Up, G:

Muse

I.
Lock-jawed, broken-socket
brain-dead mind jock,
are you lost?
Ah, yes,
we know what you want.

We know everything about you.

II.
Help me fight it, please,
I don't know what else to do,
I'm trying to be a solid wall
against the shattered remnants
of an adolescent subconscious

And it's not working.
This temptation of
incompletion, and
the fear of insubordination
are two overwhelming tides against my foundation.

And I'm sorry if it seems
hopeless and absurd and ridiculous
but
at this point,
it is.

III.
So, cherry-blossomed word-spinner,
how much love would you prefer?
Is he real(he doesn't know)?
Was he then(he isn't sure)?
Just sit back and the silence will speak for you.

He's changing, you know.
Changing to be the person we want him to be.
Slowly, so slowly, little things, little changes are
shaping, twisting, evolving
his mind and his body and his soul.

To become me.

Best leave him be, yes?
He's no better than a caged animal, you know,
a mongrel mutt without a mother,
howling for the day when
the needle will come to make it all go away.

IV.
That's not true,
you're not real,
this isn't real.
My life is a fake
and this name is the same.

I can't call myself something I'm not,
can I?
I'm not permitted to be
whoever I want to be.
I'm so lost in these freedoms we are afforded.

Find me discipline to segment my mind,
for I am no soldier at arms.
Find me a better weapon to fight this scourge,
for writing's edge has gone weary and dull.
(Ah, but even the dullest of blades can still draw blood.)

V.
This war is too much.

Little things, little changes
are twisting my perceptions of my world.
I can no longer see a rabbit
without guilt weighing me down,
can no longer feel the oak for hate of my own inabilities.

I have gone too far into this,
I'm off my deep end.
This abyss is swallowing me whole,
and I know I can break free of this,
but something, someone, everything keeps telling me,

maybe I don't want to.

VI.
Ear-splitting, hate-spitting,
anger-ridden fool,
sit down, cool off,
choke on the dust
while we equip the conscripted
firing squad.