Some poems are written for the world,
some are just for the poets,
and others, your neck would be smitten if you divulged.
Whilst we write, at times to amuse you,
and others to confuse you,
know, the epitome of poetry,
or any art form,
is not to find human muses,
but to be so engrossed in the tapestry of the art itself,
that it becomes the muse.
No longer does a poet need anything but a word to marvel over,
a painter need anything but the coarse ridges of dried paint,
a musician drunk in a simple chord,
to be inspired into their work.
If you’re a poet,
or a writer,
and people are your muses,
you have an expiry date.