My muse is a learned whore
who comes to me sometimes when her energy is spent
from long nights of misunderstanding and artless passion
and she cries in my arms with an eloquence
that puts my songs to shame
and I make the kind of love to her I think she wants
amd of course it is never enough
and then I cry as she leaves me,
having used me as her whore,
having wished from me what no other can give,
and she goes home to her loneliness
and I sit with mine.
--date unknown
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