Muses

Muses: I think my growing distaste for having a muse has come from more and more regret Each time I go back reading such carefully picked out words And such vulnerable thoughts To read the effort and desperation Wanting to strangle myself for caring so much For people who cared so little. Especially when I would admit it. When I would admit that they were less than good for me But it was better than being alone. I hate looking back seeing how much I pour myself into people who never cared in the end So I stopped having muses I stopped writing about the people I care about The people I think about The people I adore Because it feels like a contract A receipt I can't erase or return Written in ink Like fingerprints on a weapon That I'll stab into my own heart That I can't deny Or ignore. Faced with just how desperate And foolishly hopeless I was, and am When faced with just a sliver of attention. And a small bit of hope to feed my delusion.