Sometimes, my muse

Is a fat old dead man

Who stands in my doorway

Backlit by the morning sun

Yelling at me

“Your writing sucks and you’re pathetic the way you can’t let go and how you lead with your heart instead of your fists, you should just fall to ash and blow away on the east winds. “

And i know these things

So I can ignore the bastard

And go back to my bad poetry

In obscurity