It is true.
I am always the poet, the writer,
Never the muse.

The truth is, it doesn’t bother me.
For my love and my thoughts are too heavy,
Too vast for others to burden.

They do not paint me in portraits,
Nor sing my name in songs,
But I breathe life into blank pages,
And that, to me, is enough.

I may not inspire others to make art,
But I make my own art.
Messy and selfish,
Raw and free.

I love thee.
I love he.
I love it.
And I love the way words bend to my will.

Because I write what I like,
How I like.
Selfish, I know.
Selfish little me.

But is it selfish to hold the pen?
To craft the story instead of being told?
To speak instead of waiting to be spoken for?

No, I think not.
I think it’s freedom.

So I am okay with never being the muse,
As long as I am the one behind the words,
The one shaping the silence,
And turning it into something that is mine

As long as I am the one behind the words.