Loved By A Poet

Is it too much to ask, For once to be the muse, Instead of the used? For once to be the poem, Instead of the poet? Oh how this mind fights to keep itself alive, Just to have a chance, At what many take for granted. Oh how it bends and stretches, To fit you into a page, Hoping if I pour enough ink, That you might come alive. Oh how it writes a thousand poems, Not one of which you'll ever really see, Because it's walls are crumbling, And it's worried it might have to sally, In a last ditch attempt to rally, All the defenders, With trembling swords and youthful faces. In a last ditch attempt, To tie up it's laces, And shoot forward. Forward, where the future is unknown, But where, there at least is one.