Image result for the muse in renaissance painting

The muse knows what she’s doing.

She doesn’t care about your tears.

She knew you would make poetry she likes,

As you pined for her all these years.

What? Did you think poetry was a skill?

Think of a fever dream. The poet has to be ill.

Poetry costs nothing. It’s like drinking for free.

Baudelaire writes a good poem eventually.

He found a formula: laughter and self-pity.

Nothing comes from nothing. That’s it, essentially.

So the muse had to put things away

And make you find them.

You didn’t know what you were looking for,

But the muse made you explore.

You had read the virtuous authors.

But you went further. You saw further.

You wanted it all to be perfect.

The muse hid things from you—

Until you couldn’t take it anymore,

Until words were able to repair

The heartbreak there.

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