Musings of a muse

Here lies a fierce yet bitter poem I wrote when I was eighteen, in response to my lovers projecting their own perception of me and seeing me through their own filter. These boys would often idealise and romanticise me, however they never got to know me on any real level. I was very sensitive and felt hurt that I was seen as simply a muse when I was in fact an artist, a creator goddess with so much fire within her. I didn't want to play a role. I wanted to be seen and appreciated in a non-superficial way. It took some time for me to realise that this was simply the Universe reflecting back at me the fact that I was still not ready to deepen my relationship with myself and meet my own soul. A lot has changed since then.

~

Strange, how I continue existing

while they continue basking in their mirages.

~

They are the handsome protagonists of their own unwritten memoirs

in which they, of their own volition,

yet with seemingly subconscious thought,

assign a character to my existence, unbeknownst to me.

~

I continue existing,

blissfully unaware of the hole he is slowly,

slowly digging for us to

fall into.

~

Here, he can neatly keep me and proceed to

observe,

analyse

my thoughts,

movements,

limbs.

~

Failing to penetrate deep enough,

he does not dare to meet my soul.

~

How thoughtful he is

to apply his own framework to my existence.

~

Kindly providing a purpose for me

in his life’s work.

~

But darling, I am not your muse.

For you are not the artist.

~

I am not the femme fatale whom you conjured up through your yearning for my breath upon

your skin.

~

Nor the damsel whom you could conquer,

rescue,

alleviate,

however,

not upon request.

~

For it is you whom I detest

the most when I hear the word “why?”

~

“Why?”

with the aftertaste of disdain

upon your bottom lip, like the tannins

of a sordid wine.

~

“Why” would I choose to break

the man,

the heart,

the rules?

~

But darling, I am not your muse.

For you are not the artist.