Muse [Theme] Page 2

The most rewarding time is the time spent on creativity.

Every writer is a bit of a psychologist.

The aspiring novelist is a bridge between the graphomaniac and the writer.

The first attempts at writing may seem like a shame. Words, like disobedient soldiers, will refuse to get up in the system of semantic euphony. Beautiful sentences in your head will continue to be beautiful only in your head, and on paper they will look terrible. The main thing is to continue to love your work. And gradually you - the general - will be able to earn the respect of your soldiers, and at the first call they will join the system of a harmonious euphony.

Writing is not only inspiration but also discipline.

The muse visited my soul at night - I sculpted a sincere quote with her!

women…. It is the same with the profession. Yes, there are sad artists, there are merry ones. For a good artist, his mood plays a small part, because he must be able to convey what he is looking at, as if it were something to advertise itself. The artist becomes impassive, he is like a lens, like the retina of the eye, receiving light and reproducing a picture. At the moment of writing a portrait or painting, you abstract from everything. There is only your muse or landscape, depending on what you write, and there is also your feeling that this person or object revived in your soul. What you see makes your mood. If the opposite happens, then this dissonance is caught on an intuitive level. You look, the technique is perfect, the colors are well chosen, but not that. Something wrong.

Question: Some spirits can contribute to the development of the arts, helping those who are dealing with them?
Answer: There are perfumes exclusively patronizing a particular human ability; they help someone who encourages them, if you think it worthy, but what do they do with those who do not understand this their calling?! They can not give sight to the blind and hearing to the deaf.

Question: Geniuses and just smart people, do they always get their ideas to themselves?
Answer: Sometimes the ideas belong to their own spirit, but they are often suggested to them by other spirits who consider them capable of understanding and worthy to convey these ideas to others. When these people do not find ideas in themselves, they appeal to inspiration; thus they, at all without knowing it, make the summoning of spirits.

And where do you attract me,
Dark, menacing Muse,
On the great roads
The immensity of my Motherland?

Say: "Leave poems.
Prose you burn in the fire
Will not pay her debts." -
Only to live so, so bored!
Say, "Let's fall in love.
Reflections in silence
Destroy. Brother, settle down". -
Only to live so, so bored!
Telling me to "Be like everyone
Be with all, whether in the crowd
Call don't leave the fate". -
Only to live so, so bored!
Say to me: "don't vital
The idea of the star in the sky,
Better count the money". -
Only to live so, so bored!
Muse - my eternal path.
Working in silence,
I have not the soul betrayed the essence.
Inspiration - the air I!

Drop wild poetry
Soft calligraphy for the fault of our bodies
As the petals swing in the wind...
Idols of the wind touch your hair,
Metaphors rethink everything....
The images of fugitives,
Without touching the fingers struggle to reach the notes.
To achieve no more than a glance and a voice
Barely breathing
That nothing prevented the birth and death of sound.
Inspiration needs air of Eros.
Pedigree sheet and blood
Candle will melt in your hands
and will take care of the black and white dust.
Drunk from the sounds of light
Sink into the sweet abyss of the owner,
Descend into the river of love
And time flows parallel to the water.
Poets never were any gods or women
There was only God and she was a Goddess.
Poetry - kids game, intentions and shadows,
The utterance itself,
A shiver of awe and immersion into the eyes depth.
Dressed as the Muse, the memory of the roses in your blood.
White mirror Lorca.
Poetry without words, and the throat - which tears of joy.
Virginity
Greeters outcrop guilty purity.
Husky tool ecstasy.
Trembling stars.
Shadows blur the outlines of the poems...
Halo rhymes encircles the wrist...
Seamless tunic,
Milk and wine,
7 phonemes that were in bloom at your approach...
The white DOE plastic stanzas
Where hunting arrow remained lifeless.
Strong step that is a terrible and wonderful -
Triumphant TRANS touch.
This rare beauty is to be.
A woman of my gospel,
With the wind I read your nearness,
Your flaming title
Your ascended hardcover
With your mournful wisdom
And steep cliffs thirst.
In your sky above the roar of battles, insatiable vanity,
Your feeling
You were holding a book with blank pages
At this moment it was my first Psalm.

- Polar is not the brightest star in the sky.
- And what?
Sirius, the dog star. Good enough... After all, your star found in the battle for the dog.

If I were a poet or an artist, that sang to you.