How grand it must feel
To have songs written about you,
And have monuments built,
Be immortalized in art, too!
How I wonder it must feel
To be serenaded to;
You see, I might never know,
I’m only the poet, never the muse.
How otherworldly it must be
To have your eyes be called oceans,
The moon compared to your beauty,
Your existence called a Heavenly apparition,
I wonder how that must be,
How it must warm your heart—
Perhaps I’ll never know,
I’m always the artist and never the art.
How enchanting it must feel
To be the face of art,
Tell me, what is it like
Making your home inside a heart?
How pure can love like that be,
For a face to consume the soul?
But alas! I’m only ever the artist,
I’ve never felt that, and I’ll never know.
How special it must make you feel
To have letters written to,
To know there’s somebody out there
Waiting patiently for a word from you.
Perhaps I’m a little bitter about it,
I’ve never been written to, you see,
I’m always the one writing,
Not a soul out there is writing me.
How romantic must it be
To have poetry inspired by love,
And how heartbreaking it is
To never read it to the one it’s for!
Perhaps I’m only meant to paint
Pictures of those that fascinate me,
Knowing all too well the familiar pain,
That I am never the muse and I’ll never be.
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