Does my muse care about my life?
No, she doesn’t. “Tom,
Why don’t you write about your children or your wife?”
I do not, because schemes
Are not poetic. Dreams
Are what my muse desires.
Bad choices destroy you—
If you don’t admit you are wrong.
There are millions of excuses.
There is only one song.
Family is the most important thing
But I would be an idiot to sing
Of morals. The true
Fact of persons cannot be contained
In poems—perhaps in a diary, half-explained—
My muse has always whispered to me:
Real life is too complex for poetry.
A poem is a glimpse of a lover.
Metaphors capture misty
Truths, only. I’m thirsty.
This poem’s over.