I’ve gotten everything wrong and I made a book about it.
All the women I used as muses were pawns, and they never filled the hole in myself
from past traumas and unrequited love.
I felt power in my pen and I used it on them.
I drew faces they never wore and
wrote love they’ve never felt.
I told the world I was a poet And only ever a poet.
I said women's hair was only there for men’s pride.
But I was wrong.
They said there were only nine muses And yet
here I sit
at the other end of her pen.
It draws faces I never wore
And it writes love I’ve never felt.
The soul she flicks into my inspiring digitized eyes
was once mine, but never again.
But the hole is filled.
And I cannot deny that she makes me smile.