message from the muse 2 the men she taught to write (stop fucking making music about me)

many think he writes of me in the sweat of love
in the wake of our sex
in the flowers that spring up where we shed our clothes
but I know the poet best
I gave birth to him after all

the poet waits for me leave
hungry for the slammed door
can barely wait to punish me
curse me with his own blood
call all my shadows by his first name
he writes his best poetry in the crater of my absence
he loves me for all the lessons he will learn upon my death
I am the best teacher
the kind that lets him choose all the lessons
others will praise him
for how he writes me out of my own story

As of april of this year
I have taught men how to create three albums
the latest debuts to great reviews
it is a frankenstein of my poetry
and all the words he called me
my friend sends me a link to his sound cloud
where he holds my own writing to my neck
his friend praises him for his talent with metaphor
but misses the biggest one

the muse never survives the story
I am always a casualty
always a symbol of his empty
his way to make the audience cry
to make the new muse fall in love

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