I no longer bleed

That I stopped writing, feeling pathetic about myself, was inspired by you. That I finally told myself that I'd stopped being the artist That the only way I'd be better, was being seen by you. Now I stand and laugh, because I know too well That the position of a muse is one way beyond me, Way above my pay grade, hell I'm not worth craving for it. Because I'll come off, as a weird waste of time and effort. One not worth being seen. That the only reason I stopped writing was you? But how stupid was I not to realize without me letting you know, That every passing moment I gazed upon you Was the very moment you needed to pick up your brush And gently brush my cheek, as you whisper gently to my ears "Shh, don't speak, you'll ruin the pose" As you stand and face the blank canvas, To paint your most favorite being. But how stupid was I not to realize. That even if I'd tell you, that you would not get it. Because it is not I you wanted to paint.